The Ships You're Looking For
by Nyakai
Summary: A series of oneshots, each recognizing different, sometimes nonstandard ships ranging from "how dare you" to "I could ship that." This week: Commander Blitz assumes control of Rancor Battalion on Kamino and discovers the headaches that come with the rank. Discontinued.
1. Ahsoka

**I don't own Star Wars or any of the song lyrics. This will be a series of unrelated oneshots, some fluffy, others not so much. **(If you're looking for Anidala or Obitine, you're outta luck.)** Song info at the bottom of the chapter. **

* * *

_Just a face in the city  
__Just a tear on a crowded street  
__But you were one in a million  
__And you belong to me  
__And I want you to know  
__That I'm not letting go  
__Even when you come undone_

* * *

Directly after their Umbara campaign, the 501st was understandably given two weeks of leave upon returning to Coruscant. The clones had not gone out of their way to interact with their Jedi leadership; they talked to non-clone crewmembers only when they had to, and barely skated by on just enough respect in their brusque responses. They unanimously allowed Captain Rex to be their spokesman while the rest skirted General Skywalker and Commander Tano at every opportunity. The general understood to some extent and let them be. His padawan, however, was a beacon of proactivity.

"Please, master?" Ahsoka asked out of the side of her mouth. She and Anakin both sat cross-legged with eyes closed in the meditation gardens of the Temple, near enough to a clear pond to feel its dampness.

Green surrounded them to the point where the inorganic spires of Coruscant seemed like a stray dream. Just the atmosphere in this little corner of the gardens alone buzzed with more life to a Jedi's senses than walking down most overcrowded streets of the city-planet. The various trees, the different animals swimming in the water, the countless plants and softly fluttering insects all entwined around the Jedi as they meditated, helping them find balance and peace.

Or at least helping Anakin.

Ahsoka opened one eye to stare at her master and his forming surly expression. "Just one visit to see how they're doing."

"Clear. Your _mind_," Anakin borderline hissed. It was only the fourth time he had to tell her that afternoon. He vented half of his frustration out in one long sigh; he shook off the rest in a shrug as he straightened his back, re-centering himself.

To her credit, Ahsoka tried to follow her master's direction. She closed her eyes and sought to feel that familiar falling sensation of the Force whisking her away into a proper meditative state.

But it never came.

Instead, her wandering mind flashed back to the faces of all the soldiers as they returned ship-side from Umbara. Their haunted, distant, betrayed faces. The way they watched her carefully from their small huddles while refusing to approach and talk to her like normal. The memories gripped her heart as strongly as the first time experiencing it.

Ahsoka opened her eyes just to stop seeing _them_.

Anakin hissed out another wave of frustration. "_Focus_, young one. Your mind's more frenzied than the political district at rush hour."

"It'd help if you let me go and talk to them! Just once, master. Please?" She leaned in toward Anakin as he stubbornly continued his lotus position even though he was no closer to meditation than she was.

"They don't want us there, Snips—"

"Correction: they don't want _you_ there, Master."

Anakin's eyes snapped open at that, his gaze stern enough to push Ahsoka back into her own space. "They're dealing with this in their own way, just like we're dealing with it in ours. I'm not giving you permission to invade their privacy when no one asked for your presence, my young padawan. Now clear _your_ _MIND_."

The gardens shared Ahsoka's flinch; even the pond hardly dared to make a sound after that. But they slowly eased back into a leisurely routine as Anakin and Ahsoka closed their eyes once more in attempted meditation. Their breathing eventually fell into the same rhythm as the life-pulse of the gardens. The calming pace of nature eased Ahsoka's mind but still left her waiting to fall into the Force.

A sigh broke the silence. "Master, I just don't feel like we should be leaving them alone after everything that's happened."

Anakin quite possibly had already slipped into meditation because his voice was serene as he replied, "Trust the Force."

* * *

Ahsoka never actually meditated that afternoon. Her thoughts that night, as in the gardens, revolved around her soldiers. Nearly a week had passed since returning to Coruscant and not one trooper commed her. Usually Fives or Kix would call to invite her to the common area in the barracks, or even Captain Rex would contact her about an upcoming mission, but for the past week, her communicator only beeped the few times her master called.

She didn't blame Anakin for wanting to stay out of the soldiers' way. He returned from his last-minute orders to Coruscant the day the 501st made ready to leave Umbara, having finished securing the planet for the Republic without him. At the news of what happened planetside, Anakin's expression cycled through the horrified sequence Ahsoka saw on the clones' faces before he settled on anger. His emotions calmed on the way back to Coruscant, and ever since he had been living with that faint trace of guilt leeching off of his Force signature, letting the soldiers handle their grief in their own way as he tried to eliminate his own.

But it didn't seem right to leave the 501st up to their own devices. If they had reservations about their leadership, seeing a helpful and present leadership should dispel all doubts. Or so Ahsoka reasoned. Therefore, when her antsy brain refused to dwell on anything other than wild assumptions, she decided there was nothing else to do but check on her soldiers in person.

* * *

The 501st barracks stood emptier than Ahsoka had ever seen it. Aside from the constant presence of two soldiers standing guard on the ground floor, the upper floors were indistinguishable from ghost towns Ahsoka had run across on planets fallen to the Separatists. The commons for once was deserted. Overhead corridor motion sensor lights, usually always lit due to heavy soldier foot traffic, were tripped by her.

Finally, after only finding worrisome silence on her search for people, Ahsoka discovered signs of life on the fourth floor. She rounded a corner to see two soldiers supporting a third in between them. Their helmets clattered on their belts as the borderline limp trooper almost turned their walking into lurching; they half-dragged him down the corridor and into the sleeping bay.

There were rows upon rows of identical bunk beds coupled with individual standing lockers in this room— minimal space for the maximum number of soldiers. Even with the seemingly limitless amount of credits the GAR raked in from the Senate these days, it apparently couldn't be bothered to improve soldiers' standards of living.

Ahsoka followed them into the otherwise empty room as Coric and Jesse lowered Tup onto his bed, a bunk standing in one of the rows nearest the door. Tup seemed more than a little disheveled with his hair falling out of his usually tidy topknot, a disoriented expression firmly in place, and the sound of his low, fractured attempts at speech. Coric and Jesse eased him out of his armor casing until he lay in his bodysuit.

"Just... sleep it off, Tup," the medic sighed wearily, sliding a hand over his bald head as Jesse finished stacking the armor in the bedside locker.

"Should one of us watch him?" asked Jesse in a similarly tired voice. "Make sure he's okay?"

Ahsoka slipped in between the clones at Tup's bedside, causing them both to jump. Jesse's hand shot preventatively to his heart.

"Scare me half to death, why don't you?" he muttered as both soldiers gave her a little wider berth.

"What's wrong with him?" Ahsoka asked softly. Her eyes rounded with worry watching Tup, rocking weakly wearing a look of utter discomfort on his face.

"He's been knocking back drinks since this afternoon. We finally cut him off," responded Coric. His eyes leveled on Tup. "I can't stay. Fives is an angry drunk... who knows what he'll get himself into tonight." He skirted his commander to give Jesse a reassuring slap on the back before heading out.

"I can watch him if you need to go, too," Ahsoka offered. With all the distrust radiating off him, being helpful was her best approach.

Jesse snorted. "No offense, _sir_," he said in a borderline disrespectful tone she had never heard from him before, "but look how the last Jedi to take care of us turned out."

"That's not fair!" said Ahsoka, rounding on him. "You know me, Jesse. You know how hard I fight for all of you. Maybe _you_ need to sleep it off, too!"

A discussion flashed to mind, occurring as the fleet slipped through hyperspace on their return to Coruscant. Anakin had told her to give the clones space and not take their words too seriously in the meantime. Still, their thoughts and decisions stemming from anger and bitterness stung enough to elicit knee-jerk reactions from her.

"No," Jesse replied quickly, although his face shared Tup's alcohol-induced glow. He cast her a sidelong glance and Ahsoka felt his indecision tumble about inside his mind. "I should go help Coric. We're practically the only two who can still walk." He shot her a glare full of blame, an expression becoming more common among the clones, before leaving. The doors sighed closed behind him and all the oppressiveness evaporated from the room; it was just Ahsoka with her quiet indignation and Tup, his senses too numbed for her to accurately read.

Ahsoka sat on the edge of Tup's bed, taking one of his hands in hers. The clone shook every once in awhile and moaned with a furrowed brow as if victim to a bad dream. All Ahsoka's stirred-up emotions ebbed away for sympathy to flow in. If she scanned his Force signature calmly enough, she could slowly delve through the numbness and disentangle his contorted, jumbled feelings: confusion, loss, heartache. She squeezed his hand.

"I'm sorry, Tup," Ahsoka whispered. "I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me. You're all here now, and somehow I still can't help. There's nothing in the galaxy I wouldn't do right now to help you and your brothers." She reached forward to caress his cheek, but her hand only slipped along his wet face. He tipped his head against her hand.

"Tup," she whispered again. He blinked, then rubbed his eyes with a hand before finally looking at her similarly glassy-eyed expression.

"C'mmander..." he said, his voice resonating from a broken spirit. A shaky breath racked his chest and he winced as he sat up, clutching his head. "Lights're murder'n m'headache," he slurred.

Ahsoka was familiar enough with the barracks' sleeping bays thanks to mandatory GAR inspections, but she found she couldn't stand to reach the closest light panel because Tup held fast to her hand. So with a honed concentration, Ahsoka raised her free hand to the nearest controls on the wall by the door and willed the lights in the bay to dim. When she turned back to Tup, all she could make out was a silhouette, even though he sat within arm's reach.

He fell back on the bed heavily. "Whatt'm I doin'ere?"

"Coric and Jesse brought you back," Ahsoka said softly. Whether it was the smothering darkness or her taking after Tup's low voice, Ahsoka only felt comfortable whispering.

Even Tup's scoff sounded slurred. "I wuz hav'na good time." Ahsoka squeezed his hand.

"You need sleep."

"Mmno. No sleep. T'many ni'mares."

Ahsoka reached up again to caress the side of his face. "Oh, Tup. I wish you didn't have to relive the pain. But I'm right here and I won't let anything happen to you." A fresh stream of tears ran along her hand as Tup sucked in uneven breaths. Ahsoka's attempts to calm him with placating sounds only seemed to make it worse. His next breath came as a gasp. Or perhaps a sob.

"Why?" Tup moaned in a voice that seemed jarring in the darkness. "Why'd he make m'kill my brothers? W-why'd I _live_?" His voice was lost in his heaving chest. Ahsoka squeezed the hand that still gripped hers but Tup didn't seem to react. Her other hand only slipped along his face again, which seemed far from comforting.

"How can I help you right now?"

"Bring 'em back. I wan' m'brothers back."

It was Ahsoka's turn to breathe in a shaky breath. The reports detailing what occurred on Umbara were hard for her to read. The horrors they endured and unknowingly committed shook everyone, even those who never fought planetside. "I can't, Tup. But the rest of your brothers are still here... you're still here. They need you, too. And I need _all_ of you."

"I can't live with... this," he muttered. "M'heart... so heavy." More uneven gasps.

Ahsoka pursed her lips before tapping his cheek, rousing him from his introspection. "Here, let's try something. Sit up."

Tup attempted to comply in the most ineffective manner possible. He flopped onto his side, and when the direction of "up" was too hard to comprehend, he fell flat on his face, his pillow muffling his protests. Ahsoka kindly pulled him into a seated position. The next round of difficulties came when Ahsoka tried to convince him to sit cross-legged. Eventually, Tup overcame that hurdle as well. Eyes adjusting, the faint lights glowing along the edges of the floor were enough for Ahsoka to make out how his hair had completely fallen out of its topknot and now hung down to his shoulders.

"Now give me your hands," directed Ahsoka. Hands reached out blindly and nearly poked her in the face. She smirked. She at least had the presence of mind to know laughing was wrong because he was honestly trying his best despite his inebriation.

Ahsoka positioned his hands to hover level above her upward facing palms as she sat a mirror image of him.

"Close your eyes, clear your mind. Focus on steadying your breathing." Ahsoka took a pronounced breath in demonstration.

She had never tried meditating with a non-Force user before, but it stood to reason that if these same methods brought clarity to a Jedi, surely they must benefit others at least somewhat.

Tup's breath still came out in shudders, but the more Ahsoka encouraged him to relax and focus, the more it normalized. She was patient as his mind tumbled off after drunken tangents and he kept having to start from square one with eyes closed, mind clear, and breath steady.

Eventually, his low voice broke the silence. "Wh... what'm I lookin' for?"

His hands felt warm hovering over hers. They wobbled from time to time, but he managed to successfully suspend them despite his earlier nonexistent coordination.

"Peace," she answered. "Something to focus on that takes all the negative emotions away."

Another deep breath issued from Tup, a cleansing breath that dislodged a portion of his heartache like the triggering rocks of an avalanche. It was nearly as freeing an experience for Ahsoka as it was for Tup.

One of his hands rose to clumsily collide with her face. Ahsoka blinked in surprise as he felt his way blindly around to the back of her neck and pulled her forward. Before she could react, her mouth hit something soft and warm. Ahsoka immediately smelled the alcohol; it laced his breath as strongly as it seeped from his pores. But for all his incoordination, his kiss was gentle. He parted just as carefully, holding her head close, her wide eyes recognizing the dawning realization on his face.

"Oh, s-sorryssir... that's prolly not..." Tup's apology was lost to him pulling her back against his mouth.

Ahsoka was too surprised to gasp— or even to make any sound at all. She'd never been kissed before. She certainly saw enough holofilms and dramas to know how to properly respond, but part of her knew it wasn't proper _to_ respond. This was her soldier, after all. And she was a Jedi.

And yet, it was only a kiss. Besides his firm hold under her rear lek, his other hand never left its hovering spot, although her hands dangled in the air, forgotten in her lingering surprise. Ahsoka wasn't exactly sure how long their lips touched, but it was enough time for his aching, raw emotions to dull, covered by a peaceful balm so elusive in her own meditations lately.

He was mending.

Finally, Tup released her for good, letting Ahsoka withdraw hesitantly. She vented a familiar breath— one prescribed in her training to quickly release building emotion. This certainly wasn't like any meditation she'd done in her decade and a half in the Order. Luckily, the lights were off because with as warm as her lekku felt, they had to be embarrassingly dark.

"This helped," Tup finally decided after an extended time mulling the situation over in his inebriated mind. Tup's hovering hands fell onto her palms, pushing them onto the mattress as his whole body wobbled.

Ahsoka freed her hands to grasp his shoulders. She crawled out of his bed and eased him back against his pillow. Leaning over him, she asked, "Can you sleep, Tup?"

"N...not alone," he said almost in a pained wheeze.

This time, Ahsoka's hand found his as she kneeled next to his bunk. "That's fine," she whispered. "Just rest; I'll be here."

His numb brain still had room for embarrassment to grow in the lengthening silence, awkwardly pushing against Ahsoka's own senses. It wasn't a far stretch of the imagination to assume he was reflecting on their kiss. She stretched out her other hand to stroke through his hair— a supposedly soothing gesture she also saw in holofilms.

Tup's hair was thick and not quite as soft as she was expecting. It took a sense of commitment to run her fingers through the entire length of it, but the action seemed to be helping. His emotions dimmed as his breathing grew louder and soon Tup's shallow snoring heralded his descent into sleep.

The warmth drifting from him combined with the encompassing darkness almost lulled Ahsoka into sleep herself. Until she heard—

"It's the eye of the rancor, it's the thrill of the fight!" coming garbled from somewhere out in the corridor. It was a happy, uncoordinated voice.

"Vod, you don't even know the lyrics when you're _sober_," was the muffled response.

The door to the sleeping bay sighed open to reveal the silhouettes of one clone supporting another around his shoulder.

"Aye... was it wrong?" the tipsier one asked, indignation creeping into his voice even though a wide smile was plastered across his face.

"Try 'nexu,'" suggested the second clone before slapping the light panel on.

Ahsoka winced at the newfound brightness but made a valiant attempt to study the newcomers. Jesse stood there, staring with no attempt to hide his surprise at find Ahsoka kneeling at Tup's bedside. Kix, hanging off Jesse's shoulders, babbled on.

"Eye of the... nexu? Yeah, yeah— that sounds right." Kix perked up upon noticing Ahsoka as well. "Hey, Commander! It's the eye of the nexu! Did you know that?"

With a groan, Jesse escorted him further into the bay towards his own bunk.

Coric entered not much later with the body of an unconscious Fives sagging across both shoulders. Unlike Jesse, Coric purposefully ignored Ahsoka as he passed her.

Not a minute later, Jesse appeared at Tup's bunk, looming over his commander like a predator, the distrust he still radiated as stifling as the polluted smog spewing from the industrial sector. "We've got it covered now. Sir." At least this time his insubordination was in check. Now he was just edgy. With a suspicious parting glance, he retreated in the direction of Kix's bunk.

Tup stirred as Ahsoka withdrew her hand and he weakly reached out to her, completely missing her with each attempt. After his fourth unsuccessful try, Ahsoka benevolently grasped his arm.

"Nnn... don't go," Tup said in that sleepy wheeze of his. He slowly managed to open his eyes in the newfound light.

"Sorry. I think I've overstayed my welcome for one day." Ahsoka reached over to slide a thumb across his cheek in the hopes of erasing the wince from his face. She wanted to ignore the way Tup looked at her; tried to brush it off as him being under the influence or emotionally compromised. But it was harder to write off his Force signature that pulsed with something a little more intimate than respect.

Ahsoka pushed that current line of thought into the recesses of her mind to be accessed when she had more time to reflect.

"Your brothers are here now; they'll look after you," she said softly. She pulled back from him, quickly scanning the area for Jesse or Coric because she already felt the fog of their building irritation.

"Come back soon, sir," Tup said slowly, as if intent on not slurring. "I can tell you're sad. But don't worry, c'mander— we still like you. Just give us all time to come around again."

Ahsoka's mouth bent in a hesitant smile. "Thanks, Tup." She bade him good night and withdrew from the sleeping bay, meandering along the familiar route leading back to the Temple.

It wouldn't surprise her if Tup didn't remember this night at all come tomorrow, but she would have to live with his feelings and his actions as they continued to work and fight together. Tup, whether acting on pre-existing feelings or alcohol-impaired judgment, left Ahsoka's mind burdened with new sensations that she hadn't expected to be exposed to as a Jedi. This would take much more meditation on her own part to sort through— which was a larger hurdle than it ought to have been, considering how difficult meditation came to her lately.

It would also take more effort on her part to conceal anything and everything about this from Anakin. The last thing the 501st needed as they slowly relearned to trust their Jedi leadership was for their general to predictably go berserk on one of their own. And her master was nothing if not predictable.

終わり

* * *

**A.N.** Song: "More" by Matthew West.

A whole heap of thanks to **Starcrier** for beta'ing this and actually giving it direction. Without her guidance it would still be sitting halfway done on my computer and I'd be denying its existence.

I swear awhile ago I stumbled across Ahsoka/Tup fanart that got me onto this line of thinking, but now I can't find it. Anyway, welcome (back?) to fanfic Wednesday. I'll have at least the first five ships up routinely, but after that we'll see what tumblr allows. It's kind of continuously kidnapping me.

So on a scale from 1 to _Millennium Falcon_, how sailable is this ship?


	2. Padmé

_And maybe, I'll find out  
__A way to make it back someday  
__To watch you, to guide you through the darkest of your days  
__If a great wave shall fall, and fall upon us all  
__Then I hope there's someone out there who can bring me back to you_

* * *

"Padmé, I can't believe you're not taking this seriously!" Anakin practically growled, pacing her apartment's sitting room territorially. He frequently glanced at the two janitor droids hovering outside, cleaning the horribly graffitied clari-crystalline window of its death threat against the senator.

"I _am_ taking this seriously, Anakin," his wife responded in a voice heavy with exhaustion. "But understand, with this new bill in the Senate about expanding the number of troops yet _again_, I'm getting threats by the week." She continued to scan the datapad in one hand as she ambled across the room, her other hand tugging on the japor snippet around her neck.

As the time to vote on the bill for more clones from Kamino loomed closer, senators assured of the bill's passage snuck articles into the fine print, mainly unnecessary expenditure for their own planets— or worse, themselves. Padmé read each additional article with an increasingly furrowed brow; her ambling morphed into a stalking gait, not unlike her husband's. Somewhere in her outrage of her fellow senators' attempts at cheating the system, she realized Anakin was still ranting.

"You usually get angry notes sent to your office, or you hear about some off-handed remark by some disgruntled nobody on the news, but _this_! This is your home, Padmé! They left this on your window!" Although halfway removed, the bright red message that she was stonewalling the senate still clung stubbornly to the window. Anakin forced both hands through his hair, almost snarling. "I can't stay to protect you. The Council is sending me to Ringo Vinda tonight. If I could just leave Ah—" His words fell short with shoulders slumping to underline his lost train of thought.

Padmé glanced up at him sympathetically. His old padawan's name often stopped him mid-sentence.

"...Rex with you, I'd know you're safe."

Padmé approached her husband, dropping the datapad onto a couch and releasing her necklace in order to clasp his face in both hands. "And I need Rex to go with _you_ so I know that _you're_ safe. Honestly, sometimes I think he's the only thing keeping you alive out there." She pulled back and slowly returned to half a room's distance away, cautiously glancing at the preoccupied janitor droids. "Anakin, I will be perfectly fine while you're gone. I can handle myself. Even the Council thinks I don't need an escort."

"I figured you'd say that," Anakin said, crossing his arms inside his robe sleeves in that particular Jedi manner. "The Council isn't sending anyone because there simply aren't Jedi to spare with this war on so many fronts now. So... I called in a favor." His wife's head snapped to face him; her positively dangerous gaze did not intimidate him from continuing, "I told the Chancellor my hesitance to leave you unprotected, and he's taking care of it." His relieved smirk, the one Anakin always wore when he was proud of an accomplishment, only made Padmé's muscles tense, her small hands balling into fists.

"Oh, really? You've been by-passing my wishes more and more lately," she said, her tone even despite her emotions, a honed talent from working in the Senate. "You may have no faith in my own ability to take care of myself, but now you have no faith in my security team, either? I wasn't aware Captain Typho made so little an impression on you."

Anakin opened his mouth to argue, but a decisive point with her index finger effectively silenced him.

"I _prefer_ to not be followed around by Jedi and Senate Commandos because it shows the public that these death threats frighten me! The less notice I pay to these groundless threats, the less people will be inclined to send them! And here you are, my own husband, undermining me." She crossed her arms and turned away from him, huffing.

"Look, I'm worried about your safety, Padmé," Anakin almost pleaded, arms outstretched in a supplicatory gesture she didn't see. "Typho can't stop everything. I want to know there's someone well-experienced looking out for you."

"Isn't it time you met up with your transport?" his wife tossed over her shoulder.

Anakin gave a helpless flail of his arms. "I guess it is. I'll send him up when I leave, _senator_."

"Send him up?" she parroted. She finally turned to face him again. "Send him _back_!" But the turbolift doors slid shut, separating them. Padmé vented an undignified hiss before stomping about, sputtering and mumbling to herself. She eventually wound up on the veranda where she could glare and argue her point to the sun setting behind the skyline. It would've been a lovely view of soft sunlight slanting through deep-colored clouds if she hadn't been blinded by vexation.

Not long after, C-3PO tottered onto the veranda to interrupt her grumbling. "Ah, mistress! Your new escort is here!" Padmé squared her shoulders, discreetly slipped her necklace under her outfit, and returned through her apartment to the sitting room, C-3PO at her heels rambling about her new guard's merits. "I am pleased to introduce you to CC-1010."

An armored clone decorated predominantly in red paint, the Galactic Senate emblem adorning his left shoulder and a black kama hanging from his belt, stood professionally with his hands behind his back. He looked straight ahead probably at nothing, like he was trained to do, while the protocol droid prattled on. "...also known as Commander Fox of the Coruscant Guard."

Although the possibly unique red marks he wore made him look like every other Coruscant clone to her, the name rang a bell. She spared him an obligatory, though tight-lipped, smile. "Nice to see you again, Commander Fox. It seems these days I'm constantly under someone's supervision, like a child. The Jedi almost always have someone escorting me, and now it's the Coruscant Guard. Aren't I lucky?" Venting at the sun had not helped to temper her outrage at all.

The clone slid his visor in her direction. "My job is to defend those who live here, sir," Fox replied in a crisp voice that sounded like Rex on his most formal behavior, "whether that's guarding buildings, overseeing a detention facility, or protecting a senator with substantial enemies."

"I've yet to see Bail Organa with this level of security."

"I've yet to see Senator Organa with your level of renown, sir."

"Ma'am," Padmé corrected, practically talking over him, hands daintily smoothing the front of her blue skirt. "Unless I look like a man to you?" Padmé had often heard the clones call their female superiors 'sir,' and that made sense because those women were their leaders and capable warriors; Padmé commanded no soldiers.

"N-not at all, s—ma'am." Fox assuming the more formal position of attention quelled Padmé's temper far faster than his words. She supported her forehead with one hand, sighing out all her frustration.

"I... apologize, Commander. Today's not been the best." Her other hand absently gestured to the window still inconveniencing the janitor droids. Now only a few red words remained.

"I understand, s—ma'am," replied Fox. "If you'll permit me, I will begin my security sweep of the apartment."

Padmé's automatic senatorial smile died on her lips as her mind recalled the pile of obviously male clothes in her bedroom. Although she wasn't sure exactly how thorough the commander would be in his checks, it was best to not give him reason to speculate.

"Yes, of course. Why don't you start here?" She motioned about the sitting room with a generous sweep of her hand. "I'll... not get in your way, Commander."

Fox tilted his head in acknowledgment before Padmé glided from the room, moving with a natural grace refined by years of training. The only noise she made was the rustling of her skirt; when she made it out of the room, she picked up her skirt and ran.

She found Anakin's clothes on the floor next to his side of the bed. It was slightly frustrating because if she reminded him to pick up after himself any more, she would officially upgrade to "mother" status. He used to be good at remembering, but ever since he lost Ahsoka, he hadn't been so quick to notice the simple, obvious things anymore.

Padmé swiped up the clothes and successfully stuffed them into a bin nestled in her expansive closet as her private communicator beeped. The one whose frequency was known by only a handful of people. She retreated further into her closet before slipping her small, round com out of a pocket hidden in the folds of her skirt.

"Senator," came the familiar, albeit unusually low, voice of Captain Typho. "I've tracked them to the pleasure district; they're in the second story of a social house, but I don't know for how much longer."

"Good work, Captain. Send me your coordinates. I'll be there soon."

From her time as queen of Naboo, Padmé was no stranger to rushed clothing changes. But back then, she had a host of handmaidens to help her out of her grand outfits. Dormé had the day off like always when Padmé expected to see Anakin, leaving Padmé to climb out of her dress herself. She managed— eventually— and slipped into functional attire for traveling to the Coruscant lower levels: pants, boots, her trusty blaster, and a jacket that did not betray her political status. Her updo was much too intricate to easily take down, with varying sized braids criss-crossing around her head and wrapped into a thick bun in back, so instead she covered her head in a bland scarf. Leaving her senatorial clothes and necklace in a heap on her bed, she returned to the sitting room.

To find she still had company.

Fox's subtle double take at her change in wardrobe was mirrored by her own at the fact that he was still there. How did she forget he was there? His presence instantly slowed her impatient gait and derailed all her formulating plans.

Fox had barely swept half the room already, and immediately stopped tinkering with the clari-crystalline windows as his focus zeroed in on her. "Heading out, senator?"

Padmé effortlessly hid her gritted teeth behind a smile. "Yes, Commander, I was. I... have to run to the office quickly. I'll be just a moment," she assured him, slowly skirting him for the exit.

"I'll accompany you, ma'am."

Her stomach dropped at his words. Any guilty party she tracked down wouldn't hesitate to run if Commander Fox showed up to a social house in all his martial authority. For a second, Padmé considered dressing him in civilian attire to blend in with the crowds, but that would only beg the question of why she had men's clothes lying around her apartment in the first place.

So with a tight smile, Padmé let him follow her in full armor, pointedly announcing, "I'm driving."

* * *

Fox was a good soldier. He didn't initiate unnecessary conversation, he just constantly scanned their surroundings from his spot in the passenger's seat for any hint of danger as they flew over a city-planet alive with pulsing lights. It was almost nice having the benefit of someone's presence without the endeavor of talking.

Until they soared right past the exit for the Senate office building— the one with the rotating holographic sign two stories tall proudly wearing the Senate's seal.

Padmé's hands tightened around the steering wheel as she resolutely faced forward. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Fox's visor pivot, taking in the view behind their speeder. Then it swiveled to face her.

"Ma'am." Even though she couldn't see the look on his face, he no doubt now assumed she could get lost in her own turbolift trying to find the ground floor. "That was our exit."

"Oh, was it?" She continued speeding along with the flow of traffic. "Well, since we're out this way, might as well stop and pick up a couple things."

"It's safer to send a droid out to purchase anything you require, ma'am," advised Fox. "The less you're seen in public, the better."

Padmé's tongue wedged between her teeth. The only time she worked with Commander Fox was when he more or less saved her from Ziro the Hutt years ago. There was no way to gauge how his military training would manifest in a situation like this.

"Isn't that why they sent _you_, Commander? To keep me safe?"

"Ma'am—"

"We'll be fine; I promise this won't take long at all." Padmé eased the speeder into the single descending lane, piloting them toward the lower skylane— the one leading straight to the buildings lit with pleasure district holoadverts. Several miles inside the district, the dense traffic almost didn't let her sneak into the exit she needed; a Kitonak in a shiny speeder came perilously close to rear ending Padmé as she took advantage of a space half the size of her vehicle to merge into the exit ramp— the one sloping straight between the legs of a large female hologram. Fox generously remained silent their entire ride past the buildings covered with more neon adverts than people.

Padmé slid the speeder into a landing slot on the top of a low building already crowded with vehicles. The rooftop basked in the light of taller structures and their larger-than-life, moving, musical adverts, all pinks and reds and yellows. The only entrance to the building below them was through the turbolifts at the opposite side of the rooftop.

Commander Fox was all alertness stepping out of the speeder. His visor swept not only the occupied landing spaces, but all the nearest buildings and even the skylanes above them. Once he found the area satisfactorily safe, he allowed Padmé to take the lead toward the three lifts, standing under a neon sign blinking _Social Den_.

"What exactly are you here to _pick up_, senator?" Fox asked, his edgy voice borderline demanding. "This isn't a store."

"You know this place?" she called back over her shoulder pleasantly enough; conversation was a good way to derail any line of questioning.

"The GAR blacklisted it for all soldiers due to its nefarious connections, ma'am, so I'll ask again: What are you here to do?"

Well, not quite derail.

Fox reached out and pulled her to a halt by her arm. The downward tilt of his visor resembled a glare, somehow.

"My head of security was good enough to track my vandals here," she said calmly, but with the full strength of her righteous political fury. "And they're going to tell me exactly who hired them." Padmé had not once been afraid to stand toe-to-toe against the Supreme Chancellor, or any one of the Separatist politicians; she had no trouble holding her own against a clone commander. "I am going in there, Commander Fox. And if you'll do me a favor, you won't get in my way."

Padmé tugged her arm free without the need of further arguing. Fox followed her into the turbolift where she daintily pressed the down button. The display over the doorway slowly counted up the floors as their lift hurried to meet them, but it left them in silence for what felt like ages. Padmé stood resolutely as if she was up against the full force of the Senate; she was waiting for further arguments and formulated rebuttals accordingly.

"This is a matter for the authorities," Fox said, "not for a senator to deal with single-handedly!" Even with the helmet filter, Fox's voice sounded strained, as if he wasn't used to his directives and opinions being tossed to the side.

Padmé threw a smile back at Fox. "But I'm not dealing with it single-handedly, Commander. I've got you here with me."

The lift arrived and they stepped in. Despite the _Social Den_ appearing short in comparison to its neighboring buildings, it was a tall building in its own right, and the ride down to the second floor enclosed them in silence for the longest time, Fox standing with his visor unusually tilted. Padmé had seen other clone soldiers pause on their way through the Senate building to gaze in that askew manner before continuing on. That behavior never sparked her suspicion until now.

Fox's filtered voice broke the silence once he lifted his head. "When we get there, senator, _please_ stay behind me."

"Oh, don't worry, Commander Fox. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, as everyone seems to be forgetting." Padmé brandished her sleek blaster pistol, the only weapon she used since her days as queen. "ELG-3A," she informed him, an almost cocky tilt to her chin.

Fox nodded once. "Cute. Does it have any settings besides stun?" Padmé's expression quirked into a glare as she holstered her blaster. Silence descended once more; their focus rested impatiently on the display counting down the floors.

"Ma'am."

"Yes, commander?" The lift finally bounced to a halt once the display hit "2."

"Do you actually have business to see to at your office?"

"No, I do not." The doors opened and Padmé led the way out of the turbolift to find Captain Typho and one other guard conversing within eavesdropping distance.

The second floor of the _Social Den_ was one long, burgundy-colored hallway with dim overheads which made the nighttime rooftop look brighter. On either side of the hall stood similarly dark curtains, most of them drawn closed to hide the occupied, furnished rooms behind. At the opposite end of the floor was another set of lifts that only traveled inside the building, guarded by another Human dressed like Typho.

One of the first rooms on the left was unoccupied, curtain drawn aside, and Padmé found it a decent size, furnished snuggly with two dark couches that she almost wanted in her own apartment. The dividing walls between each furnished room were the same kind of curtains used as the door. Despite them stretching all the way to the ceiling, it sorely lacked a strong sense of privacy.

Padmé nodded in response to her guards momentarily snapping to attention, dropping her headscarf to hang around her shoulders. "Where are they?"

"Fifth room on the right," Captain Typho responded. "They've been meeting with someone for the better part of an hour." Typho's mouth quirked in indecision, as if he was about to run through his standard protest of her involvement in a dangerous situation, but she noticed his gaze flick to the armored clone next to her in assessment and he remained silent.

Padmé curled her fingers around her holstered blaster. As she started to advance, a pressure gripped her arm.

Commander Fox's helmet inclined just over her shoulder. "I'll go first, ma'am."

"No, you won't," she said simply, staring him straight in the visor with an authority she knew outranked his. "But you may follow directly after me."

And Fox did. He followed so closely to her down the hallway that the plastoid of his arm pressed against her shoulder. His helmet vents sounded loud right above her ear as he whispered, "Why don't you just have your guards storm in there, ma'am?"

"Because I will always use diplomacy first, Commander Fox, no matter the situation. And I want to see these vandals for myself."

They reached the fifth curtain and she grasped it just as she felt his hand on the small of her back, barely touching. Was this normal procedure for entering a potentially hostile situation?

She swung the curtain wide and stepped in, shoulders back, tapping into all her authority as a member of the Galactic Senate. She stared down the three occupants at a round table in the back of the narrow room, two ratty-looking Humans and one pale-skinned Neimoidian, dressed almost too sophisticatedly for this district.

It just had to be a Neimoidian.

Out of the three of them, the Neimoidian was the only one to jump to his feet, pointing and shouting, "What is _she_ doing here?!" Before Padmé could even get a word in edgewise, the Neimoidian was calling, "Guards! _Guards_!" which spurred the two Humans at his table to fumble around for their blasters, weapons clearly rescued from a trash heap.

Padmé scowled, pointing her own blaster defensively. Fox stepped in front of her before the Humans even raised their weapons, and with one step back his plastoid armor bumped her towards the curtain.

Until blaster fire rang out in the hallway. Red and blue bolts flew past the open curtain; several of the occupied rooms now opened, revealing the Neimoidian's forces taking aim at Padmé's three guards.

Two Nikto wielding blasters appeared in the entrance then, shoulders so broad they completely blocked any attempted exit. Padmé's sudden pushback into Fox grabbed his attention, and with an instant pivot, surprisingly fluid for all that armor, Fox hooked an arm around her waist and spun both of them around so he faced the Nikto and she the ratty Humans again.

"Senator," the Neimoidian said from his spot in the corner. The arrival of the Nikto restored his composure from a subdued hunch. "This was very foolish of you." Like most of his race, his entire tone sounded thick with condescension. "But since you are here, we cannot let you leave."

For the briefest moment, the thought of Anakin sweeping in, lightsaber swinging, was a welcome idea. But as her logic outweighed hear fear, Padmé knew a weaponless Neimoidian and two confused Humans were hardly a threat, considering she had faced down countless battle droids and several angry, starving beasts before.

Loud blaster fire directly behind her rid them of the Nikto; they fell heavily to the floor as Fox swiveled, training one blaster on a Human while Padmé aimed at the other. The Neimoidian bent into a submissive position once again as his accomplices dropped their weapons.

"Commander Fox, how incriminating did that sound to you?" she asked pleasantly.

"Intention to kill a senator? Fifteen years easy, ma'am."

Another round of blaster fire broke out in the hallway, followed by a very human scream that almost physically pulled Padmé to the hallway. She immediately turned, the only thought occupying her mind was the urge to help her guards. Another Nikto and a large Weequay barreled into the room before she even managed two steps; she reactively raised her weapon, skidding to a stop and fatally shooting the closest threat. The second, the Nikto, already had his blaster trained on Padmé and he fired milliseconds before a shot from Fox dropped him.

Padmé had no time to feel a sense of accomplishment because all she noticed was a sharp, blazing pain that made her wide eyes water. She staggered. One hand immediately went to her ribs to press against the injury, even though the burn felt like it spread all along the right side of her body. The last time she felt so much pain was when a full-grown nexu stalked around an arena of cheering thousands.

Fox was already at the door, both blasters shooting down the hallway.

Gritting her teeth, Padmé turned back to the Neimoidian, all her effort directed to raising her blaster to a threatening level once again. The ensuing pain robbed her of her diplomatic finesse as she growled, "Call off your guards!" Her hand shook and her arm failed to remain level.

The Neimoidian's yellow eyes darted from her to his two useless comrades, his body bent behind quivering hands. After the longest moment of indecision, he clicked two buttons on his wrist com; blasterfire trickled to a halt in response, the last of it coming from Commander Fox. The ceasefire gave way to the sound of thundering footsteps and seconds later red-and-white armored soldiers rushed past the open doorway.

Padmé let her arm drop with a labored hiss and hung her pistol back on her belt with as little movement as possible. Fox was at her side, weapons holstered, in about two seconds as shouting could be heard from the hallway of soldiers taking control of the hostiles. Several Coruscant Guard troopers ran in to roughly detain the guilty lurkers and force them out of the room while Fox pried Padmé's hand from her side, assessing the injury. He requested permission to tend to it in the process of pulling off her jacket.

Padmé helped lift up her dark shirt with her left hand to uncover her wound as Fox pulled supplies out of the medkit on his belt. The cool feeling from the small antiseptic hand towel he used to wipe down the wound relieved half the pain.

"This isn't severe," he intoned before pulling gauze patches from his medkit, "but I can still send for a medic if you like."

"I've been through worse," replied Padmé, reaching further around her side to lift her shirt along her back, exposing most of her nexu scars. She had never been particularly proud of them, but the sound Fox made of pure amazement brought an accomplished swell to her chest. She felt something warm on her back then; her cheeks flushed upon realizing his gloved fingers were briefly tracing one scar. She watched him return to applying the bandage to her side. "All these soldiers... did you call for them back in the turbolift?"

"Can't have too much security, ma'am," he replied with a nod. She noticed his visor tilt to take in her back once more after her bandaging was complete. "Although I'm beginning to wonder why you were assigned additional security in the first place."

Padmé smiled up at him. "We make a good team, Commander Fox."

A noise slipped through his helmet vents, possibly chuckle, but then again it might've been a groan. "I've never had an assignment neutralize her own security threat before." He excused himself to converse with one of the soldiers in the hall.

Padmé carefully pulled down her shirt and reclaimed her jacket before ambling out of the room, repositioning her scarf to cover her hair. Nikto and Weequay bodies littered the hallway, Captain Typho gave a report to one of the Coruscant Guards as their medic looked after Typho's injured man; other soldiers questioned civilian eye-witnesses further down the hallway who were all curiously glancing in Padmé's direction to discover what had interrupted their quiet time. Among the spectators, a Balosar couple embraced consolingly as their clone questioner walked away.

Padmé's breath caught. It seemed so normal to show affection. The couple didn't attract attention from any of the soldiers or other patrons curiously watching the aftermath unfold, and for once Padmé felt a stirring of envy. She couldn't walk anywhere arm-in-arm with her husband; she couldn't even wear her japor snippet freely. For a senator who wanted to cut back on the lies permeating the senate, she herself lived a life far from truthful.

Something heavy fell on her shoulder then. For the briefest moment, Padmé assumed it was Anakin, the way he would politely interrupt her from her copious amounts of reading during the increasingly sparser occasions he found time to visit. It was just enough for her to automatically respond the way she always did: with her own hand curling around his fingers and her face leaning against his hand, trying to communicate all the feelings that couldn't be manifested publicly.

Her cheek felt cold plastoid; reality forced nostalgia to the back of her mind to cower in shame. Slowly, Padmé lifted her head to look back at the red-and-white clone commander standing behind her, his visor trained on her. She felt his warmth through his gloves, and a responding shiver running down her spine reminded her of that same warmth tracing her scars.

"Whenever you're ready to return home, senator," he said in a voice shared by all the other soldiers.

Fox quietly followed at her heels as Padmé thanked Captain Typho for his help and took in the scene one last time, her eyes hovering over the Balosar couple longer than anything else. It sent her spiraling into a silence that rode with her and Fox for the majority of the turbolift trip back to the roof.

Once the doors opened to the cold night air, Command Fox decided, "I'll drive us this time, ma'am." He held his hand out for the driving pass as they walked across the roof still bathed in lively holoadvert light.

"I'm perfectly capable of driving my own speeder," Padmé retorted with the faintest smirk. She flexed her right hand to find a stinging sensation shoot through her arm, triggering a grimace. Any sort of movement from the right half of her body caused pain. "Even with one hand."

"I don't question your ability. I question where we'll end up if you drive again." For once, the crisp, professional monotone was gone. In its place was a conversational voice harboring a friendly lilt.

Padmé smiled in reply, their entire ride here flashing through her mind. "I'm sorry I lied to you, Commander Fox, but you wouldn't have let me come otherwise." She caught his visor tilt in her direction.

"I see why you usually have an entourage of Jedi now, ma'am."

* * *

C-3PO shuffled to the turbolift doors as they opened into the sitting room. He was halfway through his usual welcome home speech by the time Padmé stepped into the apartment, and a flash of her bandaged side underneath her ripped shirt sent her protocol droid into a flurry of anxiety.

Padmé dismissed 3PO, assuring him she was fine in the same breath she used to invite Fox to have a seat if he liked. It was rather undignified of her, and her etiquette teacher back on Naboo would probably faint, but Padmé collapsed into one of the plush couches as soon as she reached it without waiting for her guest's answer. The stress of the day finally caught up with her, weighing on her as if she parked her speeder on her own chest. She could only watch Fox with envy, looking no worse for wear standing at parade rest next to the opposite couch.

So many thoughts flew through her head that it mirrored the busy skyway they drove along not twenty minutes earlier. Padmé wanted to apologize for holding his hand like her husband, but she certainly couldn't phrase it that way. She wanted to ask if it had affected him at all, or even if he paid any mind to it, without bringing the memory back up for him to dwell on any further. It was as embarrassing a gesture as it was inappropriate, but if he didn't broach the matter, then perhaps it was best if she let it go herself.

"May I offer you anything?" Padmé said at last. "I have a renowned collection of Naboo wine... although Luranian brandy sounds perfect right about now." She somehow managed enough strength to lift her good hand to rub her forehead.

Fox stood silent for so long it was quite possible he considered it. "I... can't. Not allowed to drink on duty, ma'am."

Padmé dropped her hand into her lap then, observing him. "Is it all right... well, if you don't mind, might I see your face?"

She had enough experience in the life of diplomacy that noticing discomfort turned into a sixth sense anymore. She saw his demeanor change under all that armor from the way Fox stiffened, to the way his helmet turned downcast. But he obliged her.

He removed his helmet and slowly tucked it under his arm with an unfamiliar hesitancy. It took a moment for his eyes to meet hers, but when they did, she noticed an almost vulnerable glint to them now that he stood unmasked. Fox had no special hairstyle or coloring like Captain Rex, no characteristic scars like Commander Cody. He looked like most other clones, aside from that relatable expression he wore. That sobering, hardened look of someone bearing the full weight of authority— the expression that completely endeared him to Padmé.

"That's the first time anyone's asked me that, senator," Fox said. His voice sounded diminished without his helmet. "In almost three years here."

With all her petitioning and fighting for galactic equality, for better standards of living, here was a soldier living the life of a slave, uncomplaining. While the Senate, the Jedi, and even she used him as a slave, unbothered.

Padmé's gaze dropped in reflexion; when she looked back up Fox was halfway through reattaching his helmet. Apparently, it gave him a sense of confidence because he announced, "Although if you've seen one clone, you've seen us all. Troops on the front lines can get away with it, but here on the home front, we're not encouraged to express our individuality."

Padmé's face fell. So many responses flew through her mind, none seemingly appropriate. Apologizing somehow felt out of line; hugging him was certainly out of line, despite them both being overdue.

Fox tilted his head in the same fashion as he had in the _Social Den_'s lift. "The night shift is on his way, senator. Because you took out your own threat, I expect the Supreme Chancellor will soon recall extra guard duty completely."

Padmé managed a smile, small but genuine. "I was just warming up to you, Commander."

"I'll be back tomorrow, ma'am," he responded with a nod. The lift doors opened then, admitting a clone trooper painted not so conspicuously red.

Fox immediately began a handover brief to the incoming soldier, leaving Padmé's, "I'm looking forward to it," to fall on deaf ears.

終わり

* * *

**A.N.** Song: "Wherever You Will Go" by The Calling.

So from 1 to the _Enterprise_, how sailable... oh wait, wrong fandom.

Huge thanks to **Starcrier** for beta'ing this and making it 5x cuter than it would've been originally!


	3. Wolffe

_I'm not the one who broke you  
__I'm not the one you should fear  
__We got to move you, darlin'  
__I thought I lost you somewhere  
__But you were never really ever there at all_

* * *

Coruscant was the one planet in the war that couldn't fall, the home front to be protected at all costs. Despite it being the capital world of the whole kriffing Republic, the billions upon billions of civilians living there seemed to be beyond oblivious to the war raging throughout half the galaxy. The completely inorganic city-planet felt more foreign to Commander Wolffe now than any backwater forest moon or snow-covered planet he fought on, and each time he had to visit, the displeasure of staying crept under his skin a little faster. Coruscant was loathsome anymore.

The civilians didn't exactly make it a hospitable experience, either. They didn't have a much better understanding of him or his brothers than they had of the war; they saw clones as equipment to be used by Jedi to fight _some __other _equipment on _some other_ planet.

"Why are _they_ here if the war's not here?" was a common complaint Wolffe overheard from the plebs. Usually it was accompanied by distrustful glares before the critics conspicuously distanced themselves from any clones.

_The war's not here because we're keeping it confined to other planets, dumbshebs._

Maybe it wasn't Coruscant itself that Wolffe hated. Maybe it was just civilians in general. They grated on his everlasting nerves the way they completely failed to fathom military life. At the very least, they couldn't even appreciate war stories— women in clubs fawned identically over a shiny surviving his first battle as they did Wolffe and his obvious success at cheating death. The men didn't want to acknowledge that clones saved every pleb on the planet from going to war themselves to defend the way of life they took for granted every passing day. The non-clone military officers rarely associated with clones outside of work environments, which only helped slowly drive a wedge between their working relationships with clones during the duty hours.

Wolffe was much more in his element on a battlefield where he didn't have to converse with people. He gave orders and his men obeyed. He didn't have to think; he relied on instinct and muscle memory. Battlefield adrenaline surging through his veins was a better high than anything he had experimented with on Coruscant. He lived with the satisfaction that everything he accomplished made a difference for the whole kriffing galaxy... what did these civilians accomplish in life? They barely kept one oblivious planet afloat.

And he was stuck here for Force knows how long while General Plo observed Padawan Tano's trial.

But at least Wolffe had something with which to occupy his time.

Ever since Ahsoka's capture, Wolffe worked every favor and contact possible, which unfortunately wasn't much outside of the GAR, in order to obtain information. Every intel supplier to ask what he needed this for received the same answer: Personal reasons.

So here he was, strolling through the oft-forgotten lower levels of Coruscant, too low for natural light to penetrate or for a clean breeze to relieve the stench collecting there. Muggy, stale air felt almost stifling against his skin as he eyed the neon signs advertising one hole-in-the-wall cantina after another. Everywhere he walked was covered with a dampness the origins of which Wolffe would rather not fathom. The people in this sector weren't in any better shape, looking too underprivileged to live in a trash heap or to know what sunlight was.

Wolffe wore dark civilian clothes on this personal mission on the assumption he stood out less than if he had come dressed in armor. But if his posture didn't make him look out-of-place, the military grade blasters hanging from his hips certainly did. Luckily for him, most everyone he passed walked with a despondent bend to their backs, heads down, keeping to the shambles of their own business.

Wolffe found the familiar, green sign of the Rusted Spigot blinking uncomfortably fast under poor upkeep, yet one of the few establishments still running on its street. It was the third time he visited this dive in the past two days. By the Wolffe made the ten meter jaunt from the door to the bar, the Weequay bartender already had his glass of Toydarian absinthe poured and waiting.

Wolffe spared a nod, but the Weequay was only interested in the credit chip the clone scanned over a screen on the counter. Wolffe scooped up his drink and retreated to the darkest corner of the cantina, passing through the musty haze somehow even more palpable than the stagnant air outside. Today the small table closest to the leak in the sagging roof with its constant dripping noise stood empty; at least the dripping added some variety to the cantina's atmosphere, otherwise congested with the low muttering of the patrons. Wolffe chose the seat facing the door and waited. Again.

Despite idling on one of the complimentary datapads— possibly cutting-edge a decade ago— every new customer to meander through the doors immediately snatched Wolffe's focus. His gaze dropped half a second later each time before those he spied upon noticed.

But eventually his behavior brought attention onto himself. A Human woman slid into the chair across from him, effectively blocking the entrance from view with her styled, large blue hair. "Looking for someone specific?" Her tone turned an innocuous question suggestive.

Wolffe took in her lack of concealing clothing and a face obscured by makeup before muttering, "Sorry, don't think I can afford you."

"I'm not a prostitute!" she cried in a voice that grabbed the attention of all other customers in the cantina. Sentients in these parts were always interested in _not-a-prostitutes. _The woman stood up with a huff and glided away, her trajectory almost immediately bending toward an alcove table where a well-dressed Devaronian sat alone. All eyes slid back to their previous business, leaving Wolffe in peace.

Nearly an hour later and halfway through Wolffe's second drink, an incoming duo caught his attention. The male, wearing something resembling a shield more than a hat, was from a species Wolffe didn't recognize and quickly veered off to find a table for himself, but the female...

She sat alone at the bar and began downing enough shots to drink a rancor under the table. Eventually, the Weequay bartender just stopped pouring her drinks and relinquished the bottle.

Wolffe left his absinthe unfinished and neared the bar, nonchalantly dipping a hand into a small pouch hanging from his belt where he packed a pair of binders. No one paid him any attention until he jumped right behind the woman, forcing her chest flat against the bar while slapping the first cuff onto her right wrist in the initial confusion. Most cantina patrons leaned this way and that for the best view; the nearest drinkers and the bartender edged away from the scuffle. The woman herself managed to kick one of Wolffe's legs out from under him and twisted to elbow him in the face with her free arm while he was unbalanced.

He regained his footing and threw up a blocking arm in time to hear a stomach-dropping _clack!_ and feel the cold bite of metal. The second cuff fit snuggly around his left wrist, binding him to Asajj Ventress, who was alert enough to glare daggers at him, her blue-gray eyes colder than the binders.

"Hey!" the bartender shouted, one hand falling pointedly on a blaster rifle, quite possibly as old as the cantina itself, displayed in front of the bottles lining the back wall. "Take it outside!"

Wolffe glanced behind to find the green alien who entered with Ventress watching the scene from his two-seater table as calmly and quietly as everyone else in the cantina. Wolffe grabbed the fabric at the back of her neck with his free hand and pushed her toward the door, putting more effort into keeping her on her feet than directing her where to go. She growled and hissed at him like a rabid acklay all the way outside.

Nothing changed along the dingy street in the hour Wolffe spent in the cantina; disillusioned pedestrians still sparsely populated the area, walking about their business with no interest in two unpleasant-looking people bound together.

Two steps out the door, Ventress again tried to elbow him. He dropped her collar in order to block, and the sudden freedom was enough for her to execute a tight pivot and shove her left hand in his face, blasting him with as powerful a Force push as she could muster. At point-blank range, he went flying backwards... and she followed.

Luckily, several haphazardly stacked crates stopped him from traveling too far down the street. Ventress landed right on top of him and besides knocking the air out of him, he heard an unfortunate _crack_ from his back pocket. It took several agonizing seconds to breathe again, and then his free hand was around Ventress' neck in an attempt to either push her off of him or strangle her. Both her hands closed on his wrist in a surprising death grip, her snarling expression turning a pale pink.

Balling her hands into fists, she shoved them into the crook of his elbow and broke his hold. Ventress snagged the lapels of his jacket and shoved him against the crates, looming over him on her knees. Her breath choked with alcohol, she hissed, "_Who_ are you and _what_ do you want with me?!"

Wolffe's eyes narrowed. Her expression was exactly the same as on Khorm, incensed and feral, and the last thing he saw before waking up in a medbay feeling like one of Tipoca City's stilted buildings had fallen on him. Even now, over a year later, that expression startled him from his nightmares.

His left hand gripped the wrist he was bound to; his right hand circled the back of her neck to force her attention to his cybernetic eye. "Don't tell me you don't remember, witch. You did this to me!"

Ventress scrutinized him at length with hard eyes before a flicker of recognition sparked and her snarl softened into a something of a grin. Her free hand released his jacket to reach for his scar; Wolffe smacked her hand away and pushed her as far back as the binders would allow. They both crawled to their feet in the resulting stalemate, her a little less fluidly.

"Are you angry?" she nearly laughed. "You should be thanking me— I _improved_ you. At least you can tell yourself apart now." Ventress dipped in a mock bow as if he really had thanked her. It ended up a clumsy wobble. "So, what brings the big, bad Commander Wolffe all the way down here?"

"You're a war criminal and I'm here to arrest you."

And then she really did laugh. Ventress leaned back, relying on Wolffe and the tight binders to keep her upright as she shook with drunken cackles. Wolffe, his expression firmly settled in contempt, stood watching her wipe her eyes amid dying chuckles. He took this opportunity to check his back pocket; his hand felt the broken pieces of his communicator, the only device he brought with him to contact his men.

"I needed that," she admitted before switching back into a borderline disdainful attitude. "Now where's the key? Unlock me." She tossed her glance around as she waited, possibly remaining situationally aware despite her inebriation.

A yank from Wolffe unsettled her enough to find her feet again. "Not here." He'd at least thought ahead that much. Between her possible lightsabers and her powers on par with the few Jedi he knew, he wasn't about to carry the means to her escape with him. But now that he currently stood cuffed to his prisoner, not having the key was looking less like a good idea.

"Well, where _is it_?" she snapped, her normal snarl once again seeping across her face.

"Back at headquarters," growled Wolffe, his own face hardening to match. "So if you want to be free, we're heading back there." He noticed her eye twitch.

A faint whine permeated the vicinity, steadily growing louder as Ventress' gaze was pulled to something behind Wolffe. He glanced back over the tops of the crates to see a floating security droid, small, round, and nosey, putter around the bend in the road maybe thirty meters away. It wore the district police force symbol on its side and shone its own little light on everything its camera lens face fell on— which was every sentient it passed.

Ventress immediately ducked behind Wolffe, hissing, "If we're gonna leave, might as well leave now."

The other pedestrians on the street spared the droid annoyed winces, its sharp little light optically intrusive in a sector so far removed from sunlight. Even from his distance, the searchlight made Wolffe grimace, too.

He looked from the scanning droid to Ventress, still hunching behind him. "Problem?"

"I'm just as wanted by local security as I am by you and your lookalikes. If I'm thrown in a jail down here, I'd never see the light of day again."

"Sounds perfect." He made to walk around the crates, but a quick yank on the binders from Ventress bit his wrist just as painfully as it jerked his shoulder. It almost hurt his shoulder as badly as the time he dislocated it during a particularly rough bout on the mats with the Wolfpack.

Both of her hands closed around his bound arm and pulled him fully behind the crates, her eyes especially harsh. "You don't get it, Scarface: if they find us locked together, they'll arrest us both. The undercity isn't known for their exemplary due process."

"All they have to do is scan my wrist and see who I am." But then again, maybe he _should've_ worn his armor.

"You must think you're some sort of celebrity! Look around. No one in these parts cares about the war— half of them don't even know one's happening." She finally let go of him to gesture to a couple passing Ithorians, clothes dingy and eyes on the ground as they trudged along in silence.

Wolffe grabbed her wrist over the binders and pulled her closer to the street and the incoming droid.

"_Fine_," she spat, "we'll experience the undercity jail together. I guarantee you'll lose a bit more there than just your _eye_." She had enough coordination to land a decently hard smack on his backside with her free hand.

Wolffe jumped and just barely reined in his automatic response to whip around and deck his assailant. Instead, he managed to stand there, working all his fury out by repeatedly clenching his fist. The droid flew closer, turning its camera lens this way and that.

The only time Wolffe experienced the undercity was during the prolonged chase of Commander Tano— and if he was honest with himself, it was the most fun he had on this abysmal planet. The deplorable conditions of the lower districts, standing in such stark contrast to where the GAR hunkered, solid and imposing among the law-abiding sectors, made the lower levels seem like a different world completely.

And if even some among the Jedi's ranks couldn't be trusted anymore, Wolffe had even less motivation to trust law enforcement clearly not accomplishing their job in the depths of Coruscant.

His defeated, "Come on," was more of a rumble in his chest than anything else. He turned and headed down the street, away from the flying probe droid, pulling an uncoordinated Ventress behind him.

He retraced his steps down the damp, dark pavement, under rusting bridges made from connecting buildings, past vents constantly spewing vapor of some kind, though no two emissions were ever the same color. The taxi he had traveled to this sunforsaken level in would be a bad idea for a return trip; taxi drivers were just as eager to make a few credits as any respectable bounty hunter and often memorized the most wanted list. Ventress' face was hard to miss. His brain started scrolling through other means of extration.

Somewhere along the second street, his binder buddy growled, "Slow down; everything's spinning."

"Didn't know Sith can get so clumsy." He slowed his pace only to check over his shoulder, confirming that they weren't being followed down this deserted road, before returning to speed.

"If I had my lightsabers," she hissed, "I'd cut through this _and you _and be on my way."

"You couldn't; it's made of cortosis. Lightsaber resistant," replied Wolffe, an extra yank on the binders for good measure. Her slight stumbling appeased him.

"You must've spent a year's earnings on these. Oh, that's right, you're not paid like civilized sentients."

Wolffe rolled his eyes at such an old and familiar argument. A strange chuckle from Ventress sent an uncomfortable shiver slithering down his spine.

"I sense such negativity just wafting off of you."

"Probably has something to do with you killing so many of my brothers." Not just within the 104th, but the entire GAR. One lost battle barreled into another, and soon Wolffe remembered painful instances Ventress had nothing to do with. The terror enkindled by the _Malevolence_ sprung to mind, so long ago it could've happened in another lifetime.

Ventress scoffed behind him. "I killed the _enemy_. It's a war out there, darling."

"They were men." Wolffe yanked her forward to walk abreast of him in order to glare at her, all the names of the clones she killed— even some faces and helmets— bubbling to the surface of his mind. Maybe if he stared hard enough, he could project those same faces into her thoughts and they could haunt her as much as they did him.

Ventress looked at him, unconvinced. "What makes you— any of you— better than droids? Your Republic buys you, you obey their every command, and for what? A pat on the back? _Respect_? That doesn't get you far in this galaxy."

"I'm doing my duty! Something completely foreign to you."

"You will _die_ for this cause which was never even yours to begin with," she snarled.

Wolffe contemplated her momentarily before asking, "How are you even formulating arguments when you're drunk?"

"I'm _tipsy_!" she corrected. "_Slow down_!"

With a roll of his eyes, he obliged. They strolled in silence for a minute or two, just listening to the cortosis clinking between them, until Wolffe muttered, "We're not droids."

"Darling, you have 'Republic' stamped all over your manufactured body." Her gaze slid up and down his profile before she added, "Well, at least they know how to make a body."

Somehow, her gaze made the Human woman's advances back in the cantina seem timid in comparison.

"Stop that. It's weird to have an enemy look at me like that."

"Where have _you_ been? I don't work with the Separatists anymore."

Wolffe eyed her icily. It seemed like a tactical ploy, dropping from the ranks completely as the war grew fiercer. "You can't just change sides like that."

"I didn't change anything. I left."

"You deserted?"

A harsh laugh nearly interrupted him. "You can't fathom having the freedom to choose, can you? You were made to follow the Republic no matter what orders they throw at you. I _left_ the Separatists. The only way they'll have my allegiance now is if they buy it in limited quantities."

Wolffe bit back a snarl. That wasn't how war worked. That wasn't loyalty. But then again, if the enemy fought by the same standards as the Republic, it would be a vastly different war. "And what did Commander Tano pay you to help her?"

Ventress blinked sluggishly at the name. Then realization clicked. "Skywalker's pet? Nothing. I guess I just have a soft spot for lost causes." Again she eyed him appraisingly. It was the most focused attention he'd garnered in months.

"Stay alert for a holobooth. I need one."

"I consider it in my best interests _not_ to follow your orders, my dear."

Wolffe leveled a glare at her only to receive a smug smirk in reply. She reached her free hand across to slide a finger along his jawline before he could jerk his head away from her touch. There was the faintest, strangest, conflicting spark in the back of his mind, because although he still held her accountable for all the injury and death she inflicted, she was also the first woman in months to touch him— brazenly or otherwise.

Several streets later, passing a working streetlamp occasionally and establishments still in business even less often, they noticed a graffitied booth nestled among the street litter along the side of a building. Wolffe immediately veered in that direction, unhindered by Ventress' clumsy gait. The booth was horrendously maintained, but the basic operations still worked. Ventress leaned lethargically against the privacy screen as he punched in the com frequency for one of his men.

It took longer than usual for the call to be answered, and when it was, Wolffe was met with a borderline giggling clone, helmetless and drunk. Even through the blue holoimage, his face looked flushed.

"Sinker...?"

"_Aye, sir! When y'joining us? The general gave us the night off_!" The blond clone flung his arms wide before falling victim to another spurt of laughter. A second later, Boost descended into the call, leaning over Sinker's shoulders wearing a similar grin.

"_Commander_!" Boost cried. "_Done with your thing yet_?" He paused to look down at the clone beneath him. "_He was doing a thing, right_?" Sinker just shrugged.

Wolffe pinched the bridge of his nose with his bound hand, Ventress' hand dangling underneath. "I need transportation. I don't have anyone else's frequency right now." He dropped both their hands to stare at his smiling men.

"_Sir, just grab a taxi to the Blue Light sector. We're at the_—"

"I need a larty and a security escort," he cut in tersely. "Call one up and send it to my coordinates." His soldiers' smiles turned uneasy at his words; they dropped from their faces completely when Ventress entered the holomessage, her free arm wrapping around Wolffe's waist.

"He's extremely irritable tonight; you might want to hurry," she said before cutting the transmission. The Wolfpack's expressions faded, faces Wolffe hadn't seen so horrified since they floated in an escape pod in the Abregado system.

Ventress looked up at him, choosing to remain pressed flat against him. "You're welcome," she said with a smirk. "They'll probably get here in ten minutes now thanks to me. Although your friends seem _much_ more enjoyable to be around than you."

Wolffe pulled as far away from her as the binders allowed. He speculated it would take at most twenty minutes for backup to arrive. He just had to make it twenty—

"Do you recognize this place?" Ventress suddenly asked, her free hand gesturing to their dark surroundings. It was where Wolffe and a handful of the Coruscant Guard surrounded Commander Tano and Ventress not two days earlier, only to be left in a beaten heap. The worst part was, the women never even used deadly force and the soldiers still had their shebs handed to them.

"No."

A light flared from down the street, and both turned to see a police speeder glide around the corner.

"That's the all-droid unit," muttered Ventress, already slipping behind Wolffe. "They tend to notice things better than their human counterparts."

Wolffe caught himself before a snarl slipped out, but he couldn't stop his lip from curling in contempt at the mention of droids. The idea of meddlesome, barely-sentient martial units only brought battle droids to mind. He spun to face Ventress, grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her into the corner made by the wall and the holobooth privacy screen. In essence, he was protecting one enemy from another. Their bound wrists hidden between them, Wolffe braced his free arm on the wall above her, completely blocking her from view. At least this close, all he smelled was their combined time in the cantina instead of the stench of whatever it was that rotted somewhere nearby.

Wolffe didn't take his eyes off of her, because at the moment she was still the more dangerous threat. He watched her meticulously inspect him, her eyes landing on his prominent scar. Her free hand followed her gaze, reaching up to slide a finger along it, Wolffe wincing the entire time.

"You don't get to touch that," he growled. The slight jerk of his head wasn't strong enough to shake off her hand. The way she pursed her lips was far too playful for her.

"Why not? I gave it to you. Consider it a love-mark."

"I won't, thanks."

The police speeder slowed as it neared them; its floodlight shone directly on them while it was still twenty or more meters away, casting Ventress in Wolffe's shadow. The engine hummed softer as it decreased in speed.

Ventress' eyes flashed up at Wolffe, a mischievous glint dancing in them that he only saw in soldiers who were clearly up to no good. "If I get us out of this, don't say I never did anything for you, darling." Her words weren't quite as chilling as the conquest in her gaze. She slid her free hand around the back of his head, lacing her fingers through his hair, and curled a leg over his hip. And she pulled him flat into her.

The only thing running through Wolffe's mind at the moment was the ardent hope that none of the Wolfpack show up anytime soon, because he would never be able to live this down. Especially when General Plo caught wind of it.

She kissed him with a passion lacking anything remotely resembling affection. It felt more like an outright challenge— a fight for dominance. Her bound hand grabbed his open jacket while her free hand combed through his hair, bringing to mind the last person to actually like him doing that.

The spotlight dropped from them and the speeder drifted along. Wolffe slowly leaned back to watch it from around the holobooth, only to realize his lower lip was painfully stuck between Ventress' teeth. He gave her a quick shove into the wall and earned a scornful bite, but she released him.

"Was tongue really necessary?" he muttered, running a thumb across his mouth.

"Better from me than jail inmates," she said with a shrug.

"Debatable."

The speeder turned a corner and they were left alone once more among the litter and the dark dampness. Wolffe led her toward the street to check the area for any signs of a gunship, ignoring the faint taste of blood in his mouth.

Just as they passed a tall, roadside pole, the remaining half of what was once a holoadvert projector, he heard an odd _clack_ before Ventress yanked him into it. His shoulder took the brunt of the impact. She grabbed his right arm and pulled it around the other side of the pole; barely a second later warm cortosis closed around his free wrist. And he was stuck there, bound around a pole over twice as tall as him while Ventress stood there smirking, completely free.

"How did you get out?!" he snarled, rattling the binders to no avail.

"Just put my mind to it, dear," she said. Her smile broke into a gloat at his glower. "I've been working that lock for _ages_." Ventress cast a glance around before descending on him and rifling through all his pockets— thoroughly. She ignored his blasters but was very interested in finding the credit chip in his jacket.

"Your charity is all too kind," Ventress acknowledged before slipping it into her own pocket.

Wolffe glared at her with all the insolence he could muster. "I'll have you in binders one of these days."

"Promises, promises," she said, smiling. "This was fun, my dear commander. We should do it again sometime." She finished her pocket search on his right side with no further loot. When her attention turned back on his face, Wolffe slowly leaned away from a distance all too similar to a couple minutes prior. She snaked a hand under his chin and yanked him back. His only self defense was to wince, face screwed tightly in apprehension of whatever was to come next.

A kiss fell on his cybernetic eye.

Wolffe, braced for something painfully worse than a kiss, waited a moment after she released him to open his eyes. When he did, he was alone in the street. Rattling his binders against the pole still did nothing.

He only had to wallow in his frustration for the better part of ten minutes before an open-doored gunship decorated with the familiar nose art of his Kel Dor general landed on the street. Once the larty touched down, the red-painted security element he requested all disembarked to set up a defensive perimeter. There was only one gray-clad soldier among them.

Comet nearly tripped out of the larty he was laughing so badly.

Wolffe rolled his eyes.

"Sir, you're gonna have to tell me this story on the way back," chuckled Comet as he dug around in his utility belt.

Wolffe only grunted, "Lock it up."

"Yeah," replied Comet, helmet bobbing. "I'd say that's how you got in this situation to begin with, Commander." The sniggering trooper withdrew a master key from one of his pouches and freed Wolffe, who immediately stashed the binders on his own belt. He then took a moment to wipe a hand over his scar.

"Round up!" he barked, all helmets turning in his direction. "We're heading back."

"But really, sir," persisted Comet, right on his commander's heels, "what happened?" They loaded into the larty and it easily lifted off. The sparse lights of the undercity soon blurred together beneath them and the cool air that whipped through the open door was the best thing Wolffe had felt in hours.

"Ask me that one more time and you'll be airborne qualified, runt."

終わり

* * *

**A.N.** Song: "Here is Gone" by the Goo Goo Dolls.

You'll be airborne qualified threat= Wolffe will push him out of the flying gunship. More thanks to **Starcrier** for beta'ing!

From a scale of 1 to Atlas, how much do you support this ship?

A fair warning to those who submitted ship suggestions: I've got about 20-some oneshots already lined up, so if I like your pairing, it won't be posted for like half a year still.


	4. Gree

_If I fall along the way  
__Pick me up and dust me off  
__And if I get too tired to make it  
__Be my breath so I can walk  
__If I need some other love  
__Give me more than I can stand  
__And when my smile gets old and faded  
__Wait around I'll smile again_

* * *

Commander Gree and Captain Jor walked through the _Tranquility_'s stocked cargo bay, inspecting all supplies and rigging for their upcoming departure to Saleucami in unusual silence. The 41st operated a little more somberly over the past day since the HoloNet hadn't stopped rehashing commentary and reports about Commander Offee confessing to crimes against the Republic. Their helmets had been safely stowed on their belts an uncommonly long time because the vast majority of the information scrolling along their heads-up displays focused solely on their almost certainly _former_ commander.

The turning point had been when the HUD traffic veered from discussing Barriss into implications about her master, their general. Gree was immediate in chewing out the instigators, threatening demotion, and reminding them not to question a leader who had consistently proven herself for nearly three years. Ever since, his helmet had been on his belt and his mood had been dampened. Now, the officers were keeping themselves busy, like the rest of the 41st, until they could commence lockdown upon Luminara Unduli's return from the Jedi Temple.

Gree expected his usually chatty captain to break the silence on several occasions, mainly when Jor restlessly ran a hand over his bald head or glanced at the remaining cargo, his mismatched eyes— one tan, one blue— practically screaming his dismay. Gree was almost surprised that he didn't himself break the silence that felt heavy enough at times to buckle his knees. But he harbored a nagging suspicion that whatever topic they attempted would ultimately lead back to Commander Offee, and that was a subject neither man wanted to broach at the moment.

Halfway through their inspection, Gree's wristcom beeped, bringing a message from one of the bridge officers. _"__Commander, we just received word from the __Jedi__... they're recalling our operations order."_

"They're _what_?" Gree nearly shouted. A look to Jor hardly helped; his expression floundered in deeper confusion than the commander's.

The gray-clad clones on the bridge paused when Gree appeared, red hair as distinct as his helmet, Jor at his heels. The bridge officers never had much in the way of interesting events occuring during their shifts, so they watched their commander with bated breath as he stalked over to the communication terminal to replay the newest message. Four holographic figures flickered to life, Masters Yoda, Windu, Kenobi and Secura. It took longer than necessary for the Jedi to dance around their point, but "in light of recent events," they decided it was best to pull the 41st from the mission to Saleucami, instead entrusting it to Master Secura and her soldiers.

This was certainly unprecedented. So unprecedented that Gree stared in silence at a vacant holoterminal for the better part of a minute until he heard Jor whisper over his shoulder, "Sir, can they do that? Don't they have to get it approved through the GAR first?"

Gree turned to the captain. "Who in the GAR outranks any one person on the Council?" He vented a sigh and momentarily ran a hand over his forehead. "Let me know when the general returns from the Temple; I want to make sure she's tracking—"

"Er, commander..." one of the communication officers spoke up from the opposite side of the terminal. He shrunk back slightly when Gree leveled a glare from an interrupted train of thought on him. "General Unduli's been back for at least an hour already... sir."

Gree immediately swung his gaze to Jor, who balked at the attention.

"I didn't know, either, sir."

"Who did she check in with?" Gree demanded of the gray-clad officer. "And why wasn't I informed?"

"We only saw her walking down the corridor. We thought she was going to talk to you, sir."

A nod from Gree ushered Jor out into the corridor with him. "I'm going to check on her," he said as the bridge doors closed behind them. "All command decisions defer to you in the meantime, Captain. I'll be back when I can."

"Understood, sir."

Unduli's cabin was the last door in the officer's quarters section, yet so far down the hall that it felt like foreign territory. Gree knocked; a weak, almost muffled sound with his gloves. If there were any noises of movement coming from inside, he couldn't hear it over the distant rumble of the engines running through routine pre-flight diagnostics. Not everyone had been informed of their cancelled mission yet.

"General?" Gree called, knocking this time with his hand plate to create a rude, tinny sound that he almost regretted. He waited the better part of a minute in silence before tapping the control panel on the wall. The door slid open immediately, revealing Luminara Unduli sitting cross-legged in the middle of the cabin floor, illuminated by the hallway light slanting in around Gree.

Only after the commander spared a hesitant glance around the empty corridor did he enter. The door closed behind him and the room descended into near-darkness. Gree remained standing two steps inside, listening in vain for some sort of acknowledgment from his superior.

"Sir," he said, his normal voice almost jarring, "we received word from the Jedi about Saleucami. Did they already inform you when you were in the Temple?"

The silence dragged on.

Soft light crept along the edges of the floor, not daring to stray too far from the perpetually glowing luminescent bulbs. As his eyes adjusted, the light grew bright enough to highlight his general's silhouette, and eventually her calm face still in that stoic expression. Gree unhooked his helmet from his belt and set in on the floor as he sat down facing her, taking a moment to silence his wristcom. And he waited.

Eventually, Unduli surfaced from her meditation and blinked at the presence of her soldier. "Commander...?" He hadn't heard her sound so exhausted since the second battle of Geonosis.

"We've been removed from Saleucami, sir," Gree said.

A slump bent her shoulders. "Yes, the Council mentioned that might happen." She smoothed several of the folds in her skirt before saying, "I assume you already know the news..."

Of why she returned to the _Tranquility_ without a padawan.

"Yes, sir." Along with every other soldier who had access to the helmet HUD screens.

"Well, the Council has deemed it appropriate to investigate me, as well. If they find nothing amiss, then we will receive our next set of orders," she explained softly.

Gree's expression fell. "Do they really think you had anything to do with Commander Offee...?" The news that Barriss had orchestrated the attacks which left both soldiers and Jedi dead was planet-shattering enough after Gree had worked first-hand for nearly two years with such a kind and caring padawan. The idea that General Unduli could have any connection with it as well was outrageous. She was the embodiment of compassion, and Gree had yet to meet a more warmhearted sentient.

"They are pursuing all leads, currently," she said quietly. "I technically shouldn't be back here... that's why I didn't inform anyone of my return. But I couldn't stay in the Temple anymore. Not today."

Gree considered her a moment before popping to his feet and extending a hand to his surprised general. "Care to go to the mess with me, sir?"

"I ought to meditate more. I need to focus—"

"Sir, you oughta eat."

Her exasperated huff was a novelty, but she took his hand and let him help her to her feet.

They walked down the comparatively bright corridors together, hands behind their backs. For Gree's part, it was a habit picked up from working with her for over two years. He watched her head bow in the silence. It was uncharacteristic for her to carry herself in any other way besides shoulders back and chin high, radiating an inner strength that had always been contagious— not only for her soldiers but for her padawan as well.

"What's going to happen to her?" Gree eventually asked.

Unduli failed to lift her gaze off of the floor. "A trial. I suspect it will conclude much faster than Padawan Tano's."

It would've been nice to have some words of encouragement to spout— anything to cheer his general up. But for all the old histories and dead languages he studied, nothing helped him when connecting to another sentient.

Turning into the mess hall, Unduli sighed, "She was my padawan for nearly six years. So many moments to recall to find out where I went wrong."

"It's not your fault," Gree quickly spoke up. "What if I turned on you, sir? That would be my own decision, just like this was hers." He wished he had his helmet on at that moment, because at least he could mute himself after that. Unduli looked up at him with the faintest wince, but thankfully it ebbed into an understanding smirk.

There was no line tonight in the mess hall; most tables stood empty. As it was outside the window of regular meal hours, all that was available were the prepackaged individual ration boxes precisely stacked by the kitchen droids at the end of the main counter otherwise empty of food. Gree and Unduli each grabbed one, found a table, and fell into the routine of exchanging their least favorite rations.

A huff from Unduli interrupted her dinner halfway through. "How did she hide this from me? I should've known... should've _felt_..."

"We're all pretty busy anymore," Gree said, running his words through several layers of his brain before spitting them out this time. "The war is consuming us. We miss things."

"The entire tradition of Mirialan Jedi only taking on Mirialan padawans is to cultivate our culture, our heritage, our religion... it's like none of that mattered," she elaborated as a hand flew to her forehead. Gree had only seen her rub her head in great times of stress— most often in dire situations on the battlefield, not sitting safely on her own flagship. "Six years... teaching her was effortless. She was so dedicated to learning. I actually prided myself on being a good teacher." She poked her fork at a ration square. "I was so blind."

"You're a great teacher, sir. But you can't make her decisions for her. You have the loyalty of all the men; you're an inspiring leader."

It was possibly the most articulate thing Gree said all evening, and it only seemed to help deflate his general. They fell into silence once more. As Unduli slid into a thousand-meter stare, Gree's gaze turned to the helmet sitting on the table, painted green like his previous Phase I armor.

It was easy to remember meeting his general for the first time: he personified a mix of nervousness and eagerness to please. His armor and everyone else assigned to the 41st was impeccably white, straight out of Kamino. Within the first two missions, Gree was astounded by his general's fighting skill and battlemind— as he had been ever since. When he and his soldiers were allowed to choose a design for their armor, they unanimously decided to paint it green. The first briefing after decorating his armor, Gree noticed the smallest tug of a smirk on his general's face, almost hidden in her nod of approval.

Gree stalled his fork in midair to admit, "We're very proud to have you, sir."

Unduli covered her mouth with her hand, staring off into nothing while Gree continued his dinner. By the time he finished, she hadn't yet resumed hers.

"Anything I can do for you, sir?"

"What's there to do outside of turn back time?"

"You can't put so much emphasis on the past that you lose sight of everything else. Commander Cody liked to say 'hurdle the dead.' ...Er, well— that's probably not..." Apparently the filters between mind and mouth were once again broken. He let his face fall into his open hand. At least the extinct cultures he was so familiar with never needed cheering up.

"I appreciate your bluntness, Gree." Her good-natured tone easily pulled him out of his embarrassment in time to see that same, fleeting smirk cross her face. "Some on the Council are too preoccupied with dancing around the issue."

She considered it blunt; he considered it flying a larty into the problem.

A small chirp from Unduli's wrist broke the silence for Gree. Obi-Wan Kenobi's voice came through, requesting her presence in the Council chamber. Unduli acquiesced with the stiffest posture Gree had seen all night. She quickly completed the call and went about collecting her half-finished rations.

"I'll accompany you, sir," Gree volunteered, standing with her.

"It's fine, Commander. They don't need to speak with you." Her gaze was all authority, her tone dismissive as she skirted the table to veer toward the trash bin by the door, leaving her commander standing next to his chair.

"Y...yes, sir."

Returning to previous duties was incredibly more difficult for Gree while his mind was divided between General Unduli's problems and how he could've satisfactorily said the right things during dinner. He made it all the way through the remainder of the supplies in the cargo bay an hour later without inspecting a single thing.

A couple blinks opened up a private in-helmet com channel. "Captain Jor. I need your assistance."

Jor's response was properly immediate. "Yes, sir. What's your location?"

"Er, I need your opinion, rather. Nothing I'm saying is getting through to the general. She can't see past her own guilt and I'm at a loss trying to help her."

In a way, Captain Jor was wrestling with the same confusion as Unduli, because Jor's company almost always fell under Commander Offee's leadership during battles. He worked the closest with her out of all the 41st officers, so Gree expected the long pause that followed.

"Maybe she needs to hear it from more of the 41st, sir."

Gree tossed that around in his mind as he returned to the middle of the cargo bay to launch a proper inventory. Halfway through, his communicator beeped, bringing the voice he was most anxious to hear.

"_Commander, I was just informed that Barriss asked me to visit her __in the detention facility."_

Gree quite possibly remained silent as long as Jor had before assembling some of his fragmented thoughts. "That's... good, General?"

"_I'd like you to come with me, Commander. To the detention facility."_

"Is it all right with Commander Offee?"

"_It's all right with _me_, Gree."_

"On my way, sir."

The Republic base sat relatively close to the ship docking yards; Gree arrived at the front gates sooner than his general.

Unduli held her head higher than Gree had seen all night as they walked silently through the compound awash with inorganic light, stabbing even into the corners to drive out all shadows. Despite all of Coruscant being covered in durasteel, there was something cold and foreign about this base, even for Gree. He heard they'd stepped up security since Commander Tano escaped, and now seeing what that entailed, he was hard pressed to remember entering a more unwelcoming situation in his career as a soldier.

They walked silently all the way to the security room guarding the detention blocks, where several red-painted Coruscant Guards watched monitors on the opposite side of a transparisteel window. Several more stood sentinel on either side of the doors in their small room.

"Only the general is permitted to enter," one guard informed them stiffly, voice distorted by both his helmet and the public address system. They required her to leave her lightsaber and wrist communicator before opening the blast door. Gree remained after the door slid shut, arms folded across his chest, green armor almost dingy from the blaster residue that just wouldn't wash out compared to the Coruscant Guards' immaculate red and white.

Gree at least had the convenience of reopening a private communication with Captain Jor to not only check up on the _Tranquility_ but also further investigate the captain's earlier suggestion. They talked until Unduli reappeared in the security room, much sooner than Gree anticipated. He talked with his general longer during their late dinner than she had with her former padawan. She reclaimed her effects and silently nodded Gree toward the exit.

Unduli didn't speak a word the entire journey back from the detention center. Gree's only company was the scrolling information on his HUD screen, still primarily focused on their incarcerated Jedi commander. Most of it was still confused chatter, asking if anyone had seen this coming. As much as he wanted to know what happened between master and padawan, he wasn't going to pry. Jedi business was out of his lane, but if his general wanted to include him in the matter, he wouldn't object.

The _Tranquility_ received them back into its cold corridors, somehow more welcoming than the GAR base, its busy troopers prepping a ship that had yet to receive a new destination. They ambled through the halls, returning nods to the crew who saluted or greeted in hurried passing.

Unduli tilted her head ever so slightly in Gree's direction before she broke her silence. "The Council hinted they might send the 41st on to a new objective without me if their investigation isn't concluded by the end of the week."

Gree clenched his fists. This was also unprecedented.

"All I can say is I apologize that any of this happened," Unduli continued. "I was complacent and—"

"Sir, it's not your fault," interrupted Gree. "Commander Offee's decisions _aren't_ a reflection of your mentoring."

Unduli clasped her hands behind her, walking with her gaze tilted downward once more. Eventually, they wound up in the officer's cabin section, sweeping closer to her door.

"I'll leave you to your duties, Commander," she said softly. "I'll let you know if the Council contacts me."

This was as close to Unduli running off with her tail between her legs as Gree had ever seen. There was no guarantee that if she retreated into her cabin, he'd be able to coax her out again for anything short of the next mission— whenever that would be. So as she thumbed her door open, Gree reached out and caught her by the arm.

He missed her narrow-eyed expression as he swiftly cleared his HUD screen of all but one window, the one that scrolled with constant updates from 41st soldiers, all answering a specific question. Gree removed his helmet with one hand and offered it to her. "If you won't listen to me, sir, maybe you'd like to see what the rest of the men are saying about you."

The longer she hesitated, her indecisive gaze slipping from him to his green helmet, the more he feared she might deny his request. And then he would honestly be at a loss of how to help her.

Unduli finally nodded toward her open door before entering, pulling off her headdress in the process to reveal a head full of tiny, dark braids, all pulled back into one thick ponytail. Gree stopped short two steps inside her cabin, as if he had just caught sight of something he shouldn't be looking at. Her headdress discarded on her bunk, Unduli unbound her hair tie and let her braids cascade freely past her shoulders before accepting Gree's helmet with her usual air of solemnity.

All her experience watching her soldiers don their helmets did not help her when it came to putting one on herself, though.

Gree bit back a smirk observing her struggle shifting it back and forth, and he nearly lost his battle to the sudden desire to snicker when she slapped a hand down on the crown of the helmet to make it finally drop in place. An exasperated huff hissed out through the vents and she stood in silence, a green-painted bucket atop her Jedi garb.

Gree had half the mind to ask her a question, just to hear her voice filtered through the helmet. But he refrained once Unduli began tipping her head side to side, probably adjusting to the HUD screen right in her face.

The silence stretched on.

There was no doubt an outpouring of responses to read now; when Gree first sent out a message for the 41st to explain what they liked about their general, soldiers immediately complied. Some were a little more excited than others, but his only condition had been that the responses be sincere. Plus he had Jor monitoring the feed in case some soldiers felt like turning snippy, reminiscent of earlier.

Slowly, Unduli's hands gravitated to her mouth in the way Gree had become familiar with, but she ended up bonking them against the bottom of the helmet, sending her whole head jerking backward. Gree succumbed to his laughter then as he reached out to steady her. She grasped his arms in return but continued her lapse of silence, helmet still jerking side to side as she read the scrolling information.

Her head bowed not long before a soft gasp snuck through the filters. "The screen's turning a little erratic now." Her voice through the bucket sounded exactly as he expected it, but still thrillingly cute.

"You're probably blinking too fast, sir," he said and without thinking pulled her into a hug.

He never dreamed of touching his commanding officer like this before, but he also never dreamed he'd see her without her headdress, either. In all his studies and observation of the Jedi, he knew they weren't ones for physical contact, but if anyone needed a hug right now it was General Unduli. The helmet clunked against his shoulder and he felt his body armor tighten as she wrapped her arms around his waist in return.

Another sound came from Unduli. "Now the screen is entirely too much," she said before pulling away and wrestling the helmet off of her head. She presented it back to Gree with blue eyes glistening, and that irritatingly fleeting smirk making him question if it was ever really there. "But thank you, Gree." Her nod bounced her braids.

Holding his helmet in his hands was an unsatisfactory replacement. He wasn't exactly sure why he did it, but already the moment seemed to be the closest they'd ever been, so in some corner of his mind he reasoned he could get away with it. Gree reached forward and traced his thumb slowly down her tattoo pattern. Unduli didn't flinch or pull away; she just stood there and let him repeatedly stroke it.

"How do you have fewer tattoos than Commander Offee when you're more advanced?" he asked quietly, eyes intently on her chin. Despite Mirialans being a notoriously close-lipped species when it came to their culture, Gree at least learned some things from written sources and his own leadership, like how they received tattoos upon great achievement or skill acquirement.

Her room turned as dark as during her earlier meditation when everything faded into a familiar tunnel vision, most often experienced on a battlefield. Gree's heart was certainly hammering at the same speed as when he was being shot at, even though this was a different sort of danger. His gaze slid up and all he could see were blue eyes looking straight at him.

"I have three times as many tattoos, Gree. But it would be improper for you to see them."

He slowly dropped his hand from her face to rub his own, hoping to rid his cheeks of their sudden flush. She flashed that aggravatingly quick smirk of hers before tying her braids back into a manageable ponytail.

"Will you be all right?" Gree asked, hooking his helmet on his belt. She at least stood a little taller now than on the way back from the detention center.

"I'm... still trying to understand. But even through this confusing time, I need to let go of my padawan."

"Sir, the men and I are here for you. You'll always be able to count on us." His hands were achingly empty. He had come close to crossing a line a surprising amount of times that night, so Gree decided one more thing couldn't hurt. He reached out and clasped Unduli's hand in his glove, conveying his own sincerity and reassurances.

And finally, after the terrible ordeals over the last couple of days, his general smiled in earnest.

終わり

* * *

**A.N.** Song: "Bent" by Matchbox Twenty.

"You'll always be able to count on us." hahahasob. And if you're thinking, "Why can Barriss get visitors when Ahsoka couldn't?" my only answer is: Exactly. All my thanks and early Easter chocolate to **Starcrier** who gave me great suggestions for this chapter!

I can see Gree and Cody getting along famously. Jor's made up

From 1 to Magellan's _Victoria_, how sailable is this ship?


	5. Ahsoka II

_She's got blue eyes deep like the sea  
__That roll back when she's looking at me  
__She rises up like the tide  
__The moment her lips meet mine_

* * *

Ahsoka and Barriss sat at the low table in the Togruta's room inside the Jedi Temple, scouring through numerous datapads, intent on studying. They had both been elected to teach younglings while between galaxy-faring missions, and although Ahsoka decided it would be easy passing on knowledge they had already gained, Barriss pressed that they research the fundamentals first. And so they had, for the past two hours. Ahsoka took to dragging datapads into her cross-legged lap to read._  
_

"I can see you reading that holozine... again," Barriss intoned, attention fully locked on her own research. She sat illuminated by the slanting rays of the afternoon sun, the three datapads she shuffled between laid out neatly in front of her; Ahsoka sat just around the corner with the several datapads she'd already discarded lying every which way on the table.

Ahsoka offered an apologetic, sheepish smile before pushing her holozine under the table once more and returning to the datapad on her legs. It didn't help that she was inherently familiar with the subject matter they perused— granted, sometimes she'd come across elements she'd completely forgotten, but usually those weren't entirely important to the basis of the techniques anyway.

A knock sounded from the door, pulling Ahsoka back to the present when her mind again had wandered far from the reading material. Barriss popped up as quickly as if she had been expecting it and glided to answer it. Standing in the hall she found the black visor of a clone in full regalia staring back at her. A silence passed between them.

"Er... I may have the wrong room," he said slowly, looking the Mirialan up and down.

Barriss leaned back to call, "Ahsoka?"

From her angle on the floor, Ahsoka only caught sight of 501st blue from behind Barriss, and it spurred her to leap into the doorway, nearly elbowing Barriss out of the way in the process, a wide smile dominating her face. Although the soldier standing there was certainly unexpected. "Fives! What are you doing here?" She peeked out into the hallway curiously before returning her attention to the ARC trooper. "Have you _ever_ been in the Temple before?"

His shrug made his dual pauldron appear like flapping wings. "Well, it's pretty easy to find your way around... it's um..." Fives took a breath before removing his helmet, stowing it under one arm. His inherent cheeky expression was unusually restrained, as if the hallowed Temple halls burdened him with unnatural propriety. "Are you busy tonight, Commander?"

"Tonight?" Ahsoka's expression was all anticipation, assuming her soldier was about to share the punchline of a joke. "No, why?"

"Well..." The trooper's head leaned to the side, taking in the unknown, green-skinned padawan sitting back at the table, clearly focused on their conversation. "I'm heading out on a special mission early tomorrow morning, so if you weren't busy, sir, I wanted to ask you to come out with me... tonight."

Ahsoka quirked a white eye marking, grin growing. "Won't you be under lockdown so close to shipping out?"

"ARCs get a little more freedom, I've found out." He again leaned over to observe Ahsoka's friend. "Er.. sir."

"So you ignore the rules without consequences?"

"Basically."

Ahsoka turned back to Barriss, wearing the same pleading expression that she used on her master when she was sure he would object to something. "How long were you planning on researching today?"

"Oh, it's fine," the Mirialan replied in a high pitch. She began collecting the datapads together into one pile. "We've accomplished enough for today."

Ahsoka returned her attention to the hopeful clone outside. "I'd be happy to go somewhere with you."

"Great! Say... meet around 2000 hours at the bottom of the Temple steps?"

His genuine smile was too contagious to resist and Ahsoka found herself mirroring it. She gave a quick wave as they exchanged goodbyes and leaned into the hallway, watching Fives' kama swing in time with his pace until both disappeared around the far corner. She returned to her table where Barriss was nearly done stacking the 'pads in silence. Ahsoka could feel the faint wall Barriss usually erected when trying to mask her real emotions, prompting Ahsoka to ask, "Are you sure it's okay?"

"That sounds like a question better suited for Master Skywalker."

"My master?" chuckled Ahsoka. "It's just Fives; he's one of my best friends." Her words did nothing to ease Barriss' furrowed brow, so Ahsoka quickly added, "If you want, you can come, too. I'm sure Fives won't mind."

Barriss declined with a graceful wave of her hand, displaying a level of maturity Ahsoka still wished to attain someday. "Thank you for the offer, but I have healing rounds to make tonight. Besides, I've never heard of a three-person date before."

Ahsoka flat out laughed at that. "It's not a date!" And yet she could feel a slight worry escaping Barriss' Force signature, the mild disapproval Barriss never voiced when she encountered things she believed diverted from the narrow Jedi way.

Ahsoka grasped her arm encouragingly. "It's _not_ a date."

* * *

2000 hours finally rolled around; Ahsoka's constant glances to the holographic numbers floating above her clock hadn't helped hurry the time forward whatsoever. As she scurried through the Temple, a growing insecurity in the back of her mind told her she should've done _something_ besides just showing up. She should've changed clothes, even though she had very few outfits to choose from, or she should've brought a gift of some kind.

But those were behaviors she had seen in holofilms when someone went on a date.

This was not a date.

Fives, as much of a rule bender as he was, already stood at the bottom of the Temple steps when Ahsoka arrived, barely three minutes late. She almost didn't recognize him out of his armor. He wore dark clothes, tall boots and a well-fitted jacket. The only thing that was familiar was his cheeky grin, which burst into a full smile when he saw her.

"I was starting to think I was stood up," he said lightly before she'd even made it all the way down the steps.

Ahsoka's expression dropped. "Don't tell me you were twenty minutes early!" The only acceptable arrival time according to the GAR.

"Okay, I won't tell you." He assuaged her guilt with his ever-present smile before nodding away from the stairs. "I don't know about you, but I'm starving."

The Temple stood in stark difference from all the neighboring districts. One, maybe two lights illuminated the base of each spire, while all modern buildings enjoyed the lights from holoadverts, flashing lights, and the constant illumination from speeders zipping through the skylanes. The Temple reaped the reward of ambient light, but it still left Ahsoka and Fives in one of the lowest-lit environments on Coruscant, scurrying off as if they were up to no good.

Ahsoka easily kept up with Fives' pace, his soldier gait, but with his antsy glances at the dark Temple spires, he quickened his step on their way to the public landing pad.

"So," she soon spoke up, "you own civilian clothes." The dark was not conducive to studying the details of his outfit, but she could tell he looked much less bulky out of armor.

Fives proudly tugged on his open jacket. "Well, yeah. I didn't want them tracking my every move. As far as the 311th can tell, I'm in my bunk."

Despite his casual smile, all Ahsoka offered was a wince at the dawning reality: Fives was risking much more going out so late than she was. If she was caught out with a soldier supposed to be on lockdown, the soldier would be labeled missing in action, which would reap harsh disciplinary action, and Ahsoka herself might be blamed for having a hand in his wrongdoing. Being on the wrong side of her master was bad enough— Ahsoka didn't even want to imagine what crossing the GAR would be like.

"We could save this until you come back, you know," she suggested, following on Fives' heels. "Sometime when you're actually allowed outside." They reached the brightly illuminated bridge leading to the landing pad and finally Ahsoka could make out more than just his profile.

"This isn't my first time skirting lockdown," Fives said, eyes shining with stories of accomplishment. "I know what I'm doing."

Somehow that didn't ease her mind.

Fives requested a taxi speeder from the landing pad controls, a smug smile on his face, radiating mischief. "Got anything particular you wanted to do tonight?"

"I haven't exactly thought much about it," Ahsoka admitted. She stood with one arm across her body, hand on her opposite bracer, glancing more at her feet than at him. There was something about Fives wearing civilian clothes that made her see him in a different light. He wasn't exactly the soldier she trained with on long hyperspace journeys, or the one she often hung out with on off hours in the mess. Out of his armor he was a little more _human_ somehow.

So what was he _in_ armor?

"We could get matching tattoos!" Fives suddenly exclaimed, startling her from her thoughts.

Ahsoka's face slowly broke into a smile from his enthusiasm, another contagious trait of his. "You want a second tattoo?"

"I'm long past my second, kid."

The serious expression on his face strangled her bubbling laugh, leaving her to stare at him, wide-eyed and completely curious. "What? You have more tattoos? Where? Can I see?" An engine whine nearly cut off the end of her question as a public taxi slowly descended onto the landing pad.

Fives just laughed. "Hey, now. At least take me to dinner first." He opened the taxi door for her and followed her into the backseat. A quick destination to the driver and they were off, soaring toward the bright grid hanging in the sky.

"But really," Ahsoka spoke up, already eyeing him for possible tattoos, "how many do you have?"

"More than two."

* * *

Padawan Offee stood over the bed of a wounded soldier in the medical complex of the sprawling GAR base. She had been working in the arguably well-lit trauma ward all evening, and for the last twenty minutes or so leaned in complete focus over this one soldier, her hand hovering indecisively between his bandaged head and bacta-covered chest.

Finally, she crawled out of the depths of concentration with a deep inhale, letting her mind open to the rest of the world. And she sighed.

"Finished, Padawan?" a passing medical droid asked from the opposite side of the soldier's bed.

Barriss flashed an apologetic smile. "I don't believe I've been much help tonight. I will work longer tomorrow, but there's something I need to correct before I can work again."

"Of course," it said with a stiff incline of its head. Barriss turned her apologetic expression on the unconscious soldier before retreating toward the exit.

* * *

Ahsoka and Fives walked along well-lit bridges and streets spanning endless rooftops, two sentients anonymous among the crowds despite her brazenly displayed lightsabers and his recognizable face. Floating adverts, holo adverts, moving adverts, and every business sign from each establishment they passed showered them with every color of light. Aside from the glowing club goers, Ahsoka and Fives' drab wardrobes helped them blend into the crowds.

Ahsoka's laugh was drowned out by a pack of Zeltrons exiting an especially busy cantina. Ever since they left the taxi, Fives eagerly regaled her with all the latest GAR gossip, only to be motivated to share crazier stories by her responses.

"Now, I know what you're thinking," he continued, cockeyed smile cemented in place, "Rex dyes his hair to stand out and get more attention than the rest of us on leave." He paused just in time for Ahsoka to laugh again. "But actually, Commander Cody gets all the ladies' attention when we're out. He's like a magnet. Can't go anywhere with him."

Ahsoka pointed to another restaurant on their left, its bright advertisement a cooked rancor on a platter. This was the third restaurant they passed, and despite Fives claiming he was "starving," he turned this option down as well. They rounded the corner and amid bustling crowds and bright businesses lining the street, Fives picked out one about halfway down, his pace quickening.

Ahsoka tried to find the advertisement sign among all the flashing lights. "Diamondback Nexu Cantina?" Her gaze leveled on him. "A cantina, really?"

"They have good food!" he defended quickly.

At that time of night, the majority of patrons congregated at the bar, leaving most of the tables available. Fives easily found a two-seater table near the door, away from the bar-crowding drunk sentients. A holoprojector in the middle of their table displayed the food menu, opaque enough to read, transparent enough to see Fives through it, leaning with his elbows on the table, completely in his element. Before they were even fully settled, a Nautolan waitress dropped off two cups of water on her way to an alcove table.

"Jesse's a different story," Fives carried on, somehow still on track with his list of names to gossip about. "He's the only brother I know who's into Rodians. Like, he prefers them. So we could be out with Cody all night and he'll still leave the clubs with a girl or two."

"Really?" Ahsoka asked amid her giggles. "Why Rodians?"

Fives' expression quickly sobered and his reply stumbled into a cough. "Er... uh, do you know what you want to order?" He further stalled for time behind his water glass.

"Oh, come on, tell me!" she persisted, all wide-eyed curiosity. "You can't just bring something like that up and not explain anything!"

"Usually the people I bring it up to don't need any explanation," replied Fives with a pointed stare. Before Ahsoka could argue more, he held up a hand and added, "Think about it a little. I'm sure it'll come to you."

Pouting, Ahsoka's attention returned to the menu floating in front of her, boasting only a few choices of meals. But then again, this was a cantina. She managed to decide quickly enough, typing her order into the touchscreen tabletop; Fives had already input his choice practically the minute they sat down. The menu receded and Ahsoka turned her gaze back on Fives.

"So, how popular are you with girls?" she asked with the same face she had worn all evening, an expression expecting to be entertained. She knew from experience that no one in the 501st was better at telling stories.

Fives balked. "Look at you, Commander Snoop!" he half-grumbled. "All up in my business..."

Ahsoka's attempt at outrage kept deflating into laughter. "You've literally spent this whole time ratting out your brothers!"

The Nautolan waitress approaching saved Fives from replying. Ahsoka's hopes for food were quickly dashed when the waitress set down a single, wide tumbler of red liquid garnished with small, luminous leaves in front of Fives. "Compliments of the lady at the bar."

Both Ahsoka and Fives turned to see a blue Twi'lek wave coyly through the hookah smoke haze.

"That answer your question, Commander Nosey?" he said, scooping up the glass and casually toasting the stranger. He shot a gloating gaze Ahsoka's way over his drink, leaving her to roll her eyes.

Ahsoka tried to ignore the sudden, envious spike in her chest. After all, this wasn't a date. It eased her irritation when Fives prodded her to pick up her water in order to playfully clink their glasses together. But then, the blue Twi'lek had the presumption to show up at their table uninvited before Fives had even finished the drink.

"Hi, I'm Ers'la," she said in a voice far too breathy in Ahsoka's unbiased opinion, eyes only on Fives. "What's your name?"

For the first time that night, Fives' smile looked strained. Ahsoka felt his brief indecision before his natural charisma swept through with a more genuine, endearing expression. "I'm Fives. Thanks for the drink, Ers'la, but—"

"Are you busy later tonight?" she asked, leaning closer to him as one tattooed lek slipped over her shoulder. Inexplicably, the small feeling of envy gripped Ahsoka's chest harder.

"Just as busy as I am now," Fives replied quickly. Ahsoka saw the Twi'lek finally, albeit disdainfully, notice her sitting there across from Fives and took this opportunity to slide an orange hand between them.

"You want to go back to the bar now, and rethink your taste in men."

Ers'la blinked, adopting a far-off gaze and mumbling, "I want to go back to the bar now..." She continued mumbling as she lurched toward her previous seat.

It was Ahsoka's turn to swell with pride, but when she looked back to Fives she caught the brunt of his disapproval. Her shoulders hunched defensively. "What?"

"One, ouch. Two, I was handling it." He drained the tumbler in his indignation. "I was trying to be nice about turning her down."

A retort danced on the tip of Ahsoka's tongue, but she stopped herself at the last second. She had to rein in her strangely animated emotions, giving herself a moment to take a deep breath. If anything, this interruption should have been something else for them to laugh about, not argue over.

This wasn't a date, after all.

Luckily, the Nautolan waitress returned then bearing food.

* * *

The Jedi Temple seemed to slumber along with most of its inhabitants; its dark halls absorbed loud sounds from those still awake, preserving the quiet and obliging the Jedi who roamed the Temple at this hour, like Barriss, to step a little more carefully. Barriss all but tip-toed down this final corridor that lay on the opposite side of the Temple from her own room. It had the familiar feel of the positive Force energies that filled her home, but the foreign entities of Masters she barely knew personally.

She second-guessed herself literally every step of the way, but once she knocked on the door there was no turning back.

She waited. No answer.

So she knocked again, more insistently, and heard a sleepy protest from inside. All her second-guessing returned in full to tell her this was definitely a bad idea.

A bleary-eyed Anakin Skywalker answered the door in pajamas, grimacing at the low light from the hallway; half his body was hidden by the wall he leaned on.

"Yeah?" His wince made him look angry, but his tone sounded exhausted.

"Master Skywalker," Barriss began hesitantly, standing a little more bent than usual, "I think I have something to tell you..."

* * *

Ahsoka felt much better after having eaten, especially because the meal seemed to help Fives forget he was irritated in the first place. They returned to talking and laughing as if nothing had interrupted them.

All of a sudden, Ahsoka's eyes turned round as something clicked in the back of her mind. "Oh!" Her gaze zipped to Fives, a slight tint to her lekku. "_Rodians_!" With her ensuing gesture defining a snout, Fives burst out laughing.

He calmed down enough to take a drink from his second cup, a tall opaque glass of his own purchase. "See? Just needed a little time. All of dinner, even."

"And speaking of..." Ahsoka's grin widened as Fives' expression playfully soured. "You said take you to dinner first to see any of your tattoos, and here we are." Elbows planted on the table, she leaned closer, all innocent anticipation.

"Yeah, I did say that," he admitted begrudgingly. Setting down his drink, he shrugged out of half his jacket to roll up the short sleeve of his right arm and uncover the majority of a dark tattoo spanning his upper arm and shoulder. It was a tangle of lines and shapes in a single, distinct art style reminiscent of the old banners she saw decorating Mandalore. A tribute to his heritage.

Ahsoka thought she could study the detail for hours, but Fives retreated far too soon into his jacket.

"Wanna get out of here?" he suggested before finishing his second drink.

He scanned a credit chip over the tabletop and the two exited into the night air of Coruscant, arguably hazier than the smoke-filled cantina. The streets were still as crowded as ever, keeping Ahsoka's and Fives' pace slow and their distance closer than shoulder-to-shoulder.

"You said you had more than two," Ahsoka spoke up when Fives made no conversation. "So what else do you have?"

Fives shook his head in mock exasperation. "Can I ask you what other white markings you have on your body?" He lightly pinched her cheek, but she swiped him away.

"That's different! I was born with these. You and your brothers chose yours, and they're all different from each other." She couldn't have reined in her curiosity even if she tried. But beyond that, there was a thrill of excitement being privy to something usually hidden underneath heavy armor— being in on a secret, of sorts.

Ahsoka nudged him with her shoulder as they walked, wide eyes pleading. With a defeated groan, Fives took her arm and pulled her down the next small road on their right, deserted due to the lack of businesses, only lit by the advertisements bright enough to shine down the street. He led her to the side of a building, a little less dimly illuminated than the rest of their surroundings, leading Ahsoka to wonder about the level of scandalousness she was getting into. After a quick check of their vicinity, Fives pulled his shirt nearly up to his left shoulder, upsetting his jacket in the process.

Ahsoka's eyes froze on his exposed chest— defined muscles, flattering angles, a handful of unique scars, and a faint trail of dark hair stretching from his navel downward. Which only made Ahsoka wonder: humans had hair elsewhere besides their heads? Finally, though, her attention settled on what Fives had tried to show her from the start. The word ECHO was written in simple aurebesh across his heart. It stood almost plain compared to the complexity of his shoulder tattoo, but Ahsoka suspected this one meant more.

She reached out and touched the name, her fingertips slowly dragging across it as she remembered the heroic ARC trooper, the perfect balance to Fives' personality. In fact, Fives had seemed a little unfettered ever since the loss of Echo, as if he had been searching for someone else to be his balance, to keep him in check the way Echo did.

All of Ahsoka's previous curiosity fizzled into sympathy, but one look to Fives' face told her it was misplaced. He was through with mourning. He regarded her intently, with the same amount of curiosity as she displayed earlier.

For some reason, his riveted gaze caused her lekku to darken and her eyes to fall from his face. They landed on his tattoo instead and she realized she was still touching his chest. Her lekku were almost as dark as the shadows now, and hot with embarrassment. Just as her hand started to slip from his body, Fives caught it and held it along with his shirt flat over his heart, where she could feel it beating a little faster than before.

"Y'know, I was wondering where else you might possibly have white marks," he began in a low voice, as if conveying a secret, "and if they looked anything like these." His free hand touched her face, a thumb tracing her cheek marking.

Ahsoka couldn't stop her head from leaning in to his touch, but a few sudden blinks brought her halfway back to her senses, enough to unbalance her at least. She reached her other hand out for support and successfully made contact with his warm abdomen.

Her lekku couldn't get any darker.

Fives slipped his hand from her face around to the back of her neck, right under her lekku. He drew her close and placed a soft, tentative kiss on her lips. It was nothing like the hasty kiss she received on Carlac, where the only emotion conveyed had been fear.

This kiss was earnest, and slow enough that Ahsoka had time to respond in kind, spurring Fives to press more eagerly against her mouth. It elicited a new flare of curiosity, completely foreign in its desires but exhilarating all the same.

The parting was mutual once Fives' hand slipped out from under her lekku, and he stared at her with a boyish grin sparking on his face. The more he tried to fight it the more it grew until eventually he had to cover his mouth with his fist. But he couldn't hide the enthusiasm dancing in his eyes, nor the way his Force signature practically glowed.

Ahsoka took a moment to catch her breath, staring in such surprise that even Fives' overwhelming grin couldn't prod her into a smile. But despite her shades of embarrassment, she soon did settle on a smirk.

He released her, letting her hands fall away from his chest. She didn't notice her own pout as his shirt once more covered him.

Fives recovered from his incapacitating glee enough to say, "Oh, I almost forgot... I have something for you." He pulled a small object out of his jacket pocket and managed to hand it over when a bright light shone on them from the street, causing both to tense in defensive stances, arms blocking the glare.

A large speeder bike drove down the road, and when it drew alongside the couple they found the harsh gaze of Anakin Skywalker raining down on them. Ahsoka attempted a smile; Fives snapped to attention.

"Is there a reason you're out this late?" he demanded of his padawan. Ahsoka's gaze dropped to the ground, shoulders slumping.

"And aren't _you_ under lockdown as of six hours ago?" the Jedi continued, leveling his same authority on Fives.

The clone managed an awkward laugh. "Was that tonight, sir?"

Anakin signaled for Ahsoka to climb on the speeder. "Yes, it is. And I suggest you get back to the barracks as soon as possible."

Ahsoka winced at the sound of the engine revving barely before she was even settled, as angry as her master himself. She only caught a glimpse of Fives' glum parting wave before the speeder shot back toward the street, leaving the trooper alone in the shadows.

She wanted to be mad that her master interrupted her night out with a friend, but was actually relieved that he hadn't arrived any earlier. There would have been no way of explaining her way out of that, because it would've looked like a date. But it was a moment she could only reflect on with a warm, contented feeling— and even now riding a speeder with a vexed master, that memory threatened to bring a smile to her face. However, her thoughts didn't wander too far with her master's Force signature to ground her.

"How did you find us?" Ahsoka called over the rush of wind and sounds of vehicles as they merged into the skyways. Even for the Chosen One, there was no way he could just arbitrarily locate his padawan on the streets of Coruscant.

"I heard you were out with Fives. His credit chip logs every location it's used at."

She wanted to ask how he knew she was with Fives, but his tone warned her he was not in the mood to talk. Instead, her gaze fell to the object in her hand, a small holopic projector. She thumbed it on to see a miniature hologram of Ahsoka between Fives and Echo, a picture taken after they first returned as ARC troopers, all three wearing wide smiles. It was a nice gift, but something surprising for Fives of all people to part with.

Ahsoka felt a twinge of guilt for not having something to give in return. After all, it hadn't been a date... had it?

終わり

* * *

**A.N.** Song: "Rhythm of Love" by Plain White T's.

This all spawned because of that one chapter from **Sildae**'s story _Causatum_ where Fives kissed Ahsoka. And Sildae was kind enough to beta this chapter for me. Bwahaha, payback.

You could call this ship the Titanic if you wanted to be WRONG.

Eesh. March is going to be busy, so Imma take a posting hiatus. I'll be back in April though.


	6. Blitz

**A.N. **Sorry, y'all, but Nya's calling it quits. I had two more chapters already in the works after this, and fourteen ships lined up after that, but I fell out of love with writing in general. It's a lot of effort for lackluster results, and it's just not worth it anymore.

* * *

_There's a pain that sleeps inside  
__It sleeps with just one eye  
__And awakens the moment that you leave  
__Though I try to look away  
__The pain it still remains  
__Only leaving when you're next to me_

* * *

Tipoca City sat battered, littered with bodies, and still smoldering in some areas, but safe. Having chased Ventress and General Grievous from their midst and hunted down the remaining enemy droids, the victors barely had a moment of hard-won reprieve before orders came down the line to begin clean up. The resident clones from ARC troopers to cadets began searching for survivors, salvaging what they could from the dead, and destroying anything left behind by the enemy. Fully armored clones operating the scant heavy equipment available dislodged Separatist _Trident_-class drill ships from Tipoca's towers and let the dark waters claim them.

The 501st retreated to their own ships at the earliest opportunity, and all of Obi-Wan's cheerful articulation couldn't hide the fact that they clearly did not want to help with clean up. Shaak Ti never lingered in one place very long; she helped locate soldiers pinned under debris in one building, bandaged wounded clones in another, and wrapped the bodies of the dead in yet another. Enough corpses swathed in white lined one of the open air bridges to render it unusable. They were ready for a burial by sea, though Prime Minister Lama Su failed to regard the idea of a clone memorial as reason to pause the important clean up reconstruction. So soldiers took it upon themselves to swathe brothers they knew and personally cast them into the waters below.

Commander Blitz, now the highest ranking in the Rancor Battalion, limped through the armory to observe the last drill ship be pulled from the building. The most nerve-shredding sound filled the entire building as the ship shrieked along the slanted roof, durasteel-on-durasteel. A fitting end for an already bothersome transport.

The shiny white soldiers ready to ship off soon, as well as the gray-painted Kamino security forces looked to Blitz for orders. In his yellow-striped armor and with his diamond-patterned kama swaying, he certainly stuck out amid the white and gray of Tipoca City. In the span of the past half hour, Commander Blitz had individually directed enough soldiers to form an overstrengthened company. Just as he limped out of the armory, a short-haired cadet came running up to offer Blitz a helmet, decorated in painfully familiar gray designs.

"They're wrapping his body now, sir," the boy said, his eyes not quite daring to look Blitz in the visor.

"Take me to him," ordered Blitz, properly stowing Commander Colt's helmet under his arm. The boy darted off, leaving the ARC trooper to gimp after him, hissing out all his pain into a muted bucket. The hours of the battle all blurred together making it impossible for Blitz to remember how he actually received his injury; all he knew was near the end of it he was limping with a leg that didn't quite work right.

By the time he made it to the open bridge, troopers were just starting to wrap Commander Colt's head in linen. Blitz noticed his brother's gray painted armor set off to the side, a lightsaber hole cut into the breastplate. A bloodlustful heat sparked in Blitz's tight chest, a desire to find his brother's killer and use their own lightsaber to hack off limbs one by one. His hand clenched tighter around Colt's helmet.

The soldiers stepped back after they completed wrapping Colt, deferring to Blitz. Despite his bad leg, Blitz switched the helmet for his brother, scooping the body up in his arms and carrying it over to the edge of the bridge.

Days without rain were a rarity this time of the year; days with minimal cloud cover were rarer still. The sun was just a glow on the horizon now, allowing all the brightest stars to shine through on what had to be the clearest night in ages. If there was one thing Blitz would remember about his brother, it was that Colt lived for the nights he could see the stars. A fitting night to bury him.

Blitz dropped him over the edge and watched Colt's swathed body fall farther and farther until silently embraced by the ocean.

Without a word or a look to the other soldiers, some busily wrapping brothers, others busily watching him, Blitz reclaimed Colt's helmet and limped off toward the living area, one of the few buildings untouched by the Separatist invasion.

The journey back to his living quarters was longer with his limp; it didn't help that Colt's helmet grew heavier along the way. The passageways he traversed improved from damaged warzone to pristine white halls. The clones he passed in the unaffected areas moved with less of a purpose, and this was the first time where Blitz began to see signs of Kaminoans again. The soldiers to pass him, both shinies and gray guards, saluted, while the Kaminoans glided past with the subtlest nods in acknowledgment.

Blitz's room, which he had shared with Havoc, seemed a little emptier as the door sighed open in welcome. He set Colt's helmet on the top of his personal locker, right next to Havoc's helmet marred by a blaster hole through half of the face.

Blitz braced his hands against the front of the locker and just leaned there for the longest time, head bowed. The scrolling information on his heads-up display screen informed him that most clean-up operations were pausing for the night, to be resumed at first light tomorrow. With a grunt equal parts motivational and pained, Blitz pushed himself off of the locker to stalk outside on a tour of the damage to make sure orders were being followed.

He passed Sten, the only other surviving ARC trooper from Rancor Battalion, on his way toward his own room.

Sten, the least decorated out of all the ARCs, only wearing several red dots along his helmet and breastplate, a red dual pauldron, and a plain black kama, paused long enough to land a slap on Blitz's shoulder, reporting, "Cloning chamber's almost all cleared up."

"How bad was it?"

"Few thousand lost." Sten shook his head. "Just wanna pass out and put today behind me."

"Sounds good, vod. I'll see you in the morning." He returned Sten's slap on his red pauldron before continuing on. He made it halfway back to the war torn sections before settling into a manageable gait for his hurt leg.

It was a relief to find soldiers had already left the machinery and reconstruction as it was for the night; Blitz wasn't in the mood to pull rank on anyone at the moment, especially because all other soldiers were no doubt just as affected by this battle as himself. He would much rather just follow Sten's lead and go to bed. He passed the same bridge as before to see a few clones tipping the last of the swathed bodies into the water and Blitz took a moment to hang his head.

"Commander," a soothing voice spoke up from behind him, pleasantly pulling him from thoughts he would rather not think. "Good evening."

Blitz turned to see Shaak Ti approaching as fluidly as the two Kaminoans following her. He easily recognized Taun We, the administrative aide to the Prime Minister, wearing her usual headband, beads dangling from one side. Blitz assumed the second Kaminoan was Nala Se, the newly arrived administrator of Kaliida Shoals. As far as Kaminoans went, Nala Se looked strict and downright unapproachable, especially compared to Taun We.

Blitz replied with a general nod for all three females. "Er... good evening." A greeting had never felt so empty before. He watched the general pause to scan from the rubble to the clones returning from the bridge, their task of sending off their brothers finally complete. The Kaminoans, lacking Shaak Ti's patience, halted a little further on as if not expecting her to stop for so long.

"How is clean up progressing?"

Contrary to all his training, a sarcastic and petulant answer sprang to the tip of his tongue so quickly that Blitz almost choked on it. Three females' gazes on him as he momentarily stammered for a correct reply was the last thing he needed right then.

"Er, ah... it's going, sir. All tridents are extracted, most holes are patched. The remaining debris will be removed by tomorrow, and from there we can start rebuilding the interior."

Shaak Ti nodded at the news, that slow nod which only dug under Blitz's skin now. Jedi were on par with Kaminoans for not displaying emotion, but this was a bit much. The casualty numbers weren't just battle-ready soldiers; trainees, cadets, and those still growing in their vats made up the list of victims. Commander Colt and Havoc made up the list of victims. And now—

"I'm sorry for your loss, Commander Blitz," Shaak Ti said. The hand she rested on his breastplate felt as heavy as if she'd punched him. All he could do was nod in return.

"Have you been to the medics about your leg yet?"

"Sir?" Blitz asked after an immediate double take. As far as he remembered, this was the first time since the battle began that he had run into her, let alone talked to her.

"You need to go, Blitz. Take care of yourself so that you may continue to lead others."

"I'll go when I get a spare moment, sir," he promised with a nod. He meant it, too, but he first had to complete his rounds.

Shaak Ti stared at him with a quiet intensity that made him think she could see right through his helmet into his eyes— into his very soul. "You will go _now_ if you would rather not be carried there by me, Commander."

Blitz swallowed. "…Yes, sir."

The commander smelled sterile chemicals through his helmet filters before he even reached the medical bay doors. It was blatant to see why he avoided this place as long as he could— clones with much more serious injuries than him crowded every available space inside; the medics ran in a frenzy to help each victim. One or two Kaminoan doctors could be seen towering in the room, drifting lazily from patient to patient, as was their way.

The head medic paused mid-bustle, arms full of seemingly random supplies, to throw his overwhelmed glance Blitz's way. "What can I do you for, sir?" It was almost a dare.

"Just pain meds," he grunted in reply. "Some of your strongest."

The medic juggled his arm load about until he managed to toss a small package in Blitz's direction. Without even waiting for Blitz to catch it, he continued on to his patients.

* * *

Two empty helmets greeted Blitz when he returned to his room, staring at him from atop his wall locker. His mind momentarily assumed his brothers were there; the last time he really saw those helmets was when his fellow ARC troopers wore them.

Dropping his own helmet onto his bunk, Blitz hunted for water to take his painkillers.

The room was too quiet. Havoc wasn't always the best conversationalist, but just having his brother in the room was better than this empty void making Havoc's half of the cabin seem ten times larger. Between the open airlock-emptiness of the room and the staring helmets, Blitz felt unwelcome in what he had come to consider his own home.

As soon as he changed into his red sleeping uniform— the one with his designation number stitched into it— Blitz was out the door. The painkillers at least helped him limp less noticeably.

The windows staring out over the ocean obscured by the night pinged as fresh raindrops slanted against them, sparse at first but with a growing frequency. Blitz breathed a little easier walking through the brightly-lit halls. He pondered finding a door to the outside when he passed a male Kaminoan, a scientist by the looks of him. Blitz would've been happy to pass him by without a word, but apparently he was the only one.

"You, clone."

Blitz turned to the wide-eyed, blank-faced scientist. "...Sir?" His sinking tone wasn't helping matters.

"Your hair is terribly out of regulation. You should remedy this before leaving private quarters." The Kaminoan gave a finalizing nod before gliding away, leaving Blitz to run a hand down his face. His stubble was longer than he expected; he hadn't passed the mirror in his 'fresher in who knows how long. He knew for a fact that his hair was within reg length— it was still growing back from when he shaved it all off weeks ago— but he ran his hands through it to make sure what he had wasn't completely disheveled, narrowed eyes glaring after the retreating Kaminoan.

"Commander Blitz?" came a soft voice from behind him. He whirled around to find Shaak Ti standing there, calmly watching him. "How is your leg faring now?"

Blitz slowly lowered his hands. "It's... better, sir." He nonchalantly began straightening his uniform, because if one scientist could get offended at his appearance, surely the resident Jedi general would—

"I was about to make some tea in my quarters if you would like to join me. I know you've been through much today," she said, gesturing over her shoulder to the hallway beyond. The general lived in the nicer half of the resident building, where rooms were bigger and more luxurious.

Part of Blitz wanted to crawl back to his own room, curl up and hibernate after this tolling experience, but one glance back in the direction of his quarters granted him a view of Nala Se gliding toward them. Rumors already circulated around his brothers about her stinginess.

Blitz cleared his throat, turning quickly back to Shaak Ti. "I wouldn't dream of imposing, sir... but tea sounds lovely." The general's languid gait was perfect for his limp, but possibly slower than a handicapped Kaminoan; at this pace, Nala Se would certainly catch up, and Blitz dearly didn't want to interact with any more of her kind tonight. He had half the mind to put a hand on Shaak Ti's back and push her along.

Blitz's hope for escape died when an unhurried voice from behind called, "Master Ti." And as magnanimous as all clones had grown to know her, Shaak Ti stopped and turned to the Kaminoan. Blitz casually stretched his hand across his jaw in a very slow scratch as if he could hide his reg-breaking stubble. He even tilted his face away from their conversation, but that didn't help him for long.

"Which one is this?"

A spike of contempt shot through Blitz; his hand dropped and his gaze fell squarely on Nala Se, almost challenging her to remember him. His inexplicable anger fizzled when the general laid a light hand on his shoulder. With it, a calming wave swept over his entire body. He blinked, suddenly glancing to Shaak Ti to find her staring right back at him, her gaze as tranquil as ever.

"Nala Se, I'm sure you remember Commander Blitz from earlier?" the Jedi said, looking back to the Kaminoan. "He's the new leader of the Rancor Battalion— the ARC troopers who train the men."

"Ah, yes," she replied, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "One would think clones of such a high caliber would adhere to regulation better."

Shaak Ti's hand never left his shoulder. "One must also remember today has been very trying, and we all could use time to rest and reflect before returning to our duties tomorrow." Her montrals tilted in a bow of her head. "Good night, Nala Se."

The Kaminoan blinked, slightly taken aback at being dismissed so suddenly, but bowed her head in return before continuing on at that aggravatingly slow pace. Once she rounded the nearest bend in the corridor, Shaak Ti finally released Blitz's shoulder. The absence of her touch allowed his previous agitated emotions to flood back into his mind— emotions he had certainly been able to keep under lockdown before this.

"The offer for tea remains if you're still interested, Commander." she said.

Blitz looked from her red hands to her face and nodded dumbly.

Shaak Ti's quarters were as bright as the rest of Tipoca City, and larger than his own which he had shared from the beginning. Her bed rested in an alcove in the back, on what would be Havoc's side of the room, while a nice, high-backed couch and table set occupied Blitz's side of the room, with much more space in between than he was used to.

Shaak Ti slipped into the kitchenette area nonexistent in Blitz's quarters while he could only say, "You get a couch?"

"Help yourself," she replied, her voice trailing languidly into the room. "I can't recall using it. I wish the Kaminoans wouldn't dote on me; they know Jedi are used to minimal amenities, and yet they don't treat me like I am."

Blitz slowly approached the large, white piece of furniture like it was as dangerous as the felled _Trident_ ships, experimentally reaching out a hand to press into one cushion. It was at least five times softer than his bed. Sitting on it, he might've sunk slower into the ocean. It was snugger than his bodysuit and impossible to believe that something this comfortable could be fabricated.

Shaak Ti gracefully swept into the room, a tall cup in each hand. She set his down on the low table in front of him, letting the steam idly rise while she sat on the other side of the couch, holding her cup to her face and inhaling everything. Somewhere in the kitchenette she had removed her robe and now sat in a sleeveless dark shirt, accentuating her red, toned arms. It was surprising how much her cloak hid a warrior's body.

Between his general and a life-changing couch, Blitz quickly realized he had no idea what to say. There had been no reason for him to accept her offer other than her presence inexplicably removed his distress. He barely even knew her that well— Commander Colt always interacted with Shaak Ti on matters of training the up-and-coming soldiers. But now was as good a time as any to get to know her, considering Blitz inherited that mantle as of today.

He racked his brain for something to say as she just sat there and sipped her drink. He wasn't made for socializing, after all, which he clearly proved as he said, "You... you have a nice couch, sir."

A chortle interrupted her mid-sip and a hand flew to her mouth reflexively. "Thank you, Blitz. I've never had company over until now and have lacked a chance to use it."

Blitz looked from his cup of tea to the rest of the room, taking in the amount of space— a luxury to any clone. "I didn't mean to intrude, general, I—"

"You're not intruding," she said sternly. Her hand that waved away his words fell on his own, bringing with it that earlier wave of calm, spreading right from her contact through the rest of his body. "I invited you here and you're my guest." Shaak Ti pulled away and Blitz almost reached out to take her hand back. Instead, halfway to her, he veered to pick up his drink and sat there, intently staring at the cup in both his hands.

"You fought well today, Commander Blitz. We proved to the Separatists that they cannot win on your home planet."

"Are all victories so costly?"

"Some."

He never envied Colt's command position— dealing with the Kaminoans on a daily basis, spouting inspiring speeches to the trainees, personally overseeing exercises— but now it all fell into his lap. The Kaminoans who worked closely with Rancor Battalion had already started congratulating Blitz earlier that day. They might as well have congratulated him on Colt and Havoc dying in order for him to successfully inherit this rank.

"Did you know him well?" Blitz suddenly asked, his gaze not leaving his drink. "Commander Colt, I mean."

"We worked together often, but he hardly talked about himself," replied Shaak Ti softly. "I wish we had more opportunities to get to know one another."

"Colt was the idealist in our group," Blitz found himself saying. It felt like he drifted on autopilot— his words flowed out of someplace other than his mind. "Off duty, he always talked about his dreams, the things he wanted to do after the war. The normal life he wanted to lead on Corellia, or Alderaan, or Balmorra. It was always changing."

He remembered each time Colt envisioned a new life as he spoke, but all memories eventually fell to the scene from earlier that day on the open bridge.

"...And now he can't."

When Colt had been in charge, Blitz comfortably followed his direction no matter the difficulties they faced in implementing training or tackling enemies on Kamino or elsewhere. Now he was left with a rage and an indignation that could blaze brighter than the combined fury of Tatooine's suns at a moment's notice. As the acceptance of what had happened to his brothers slowly started to sink in, Blitz was still unsure if this anger stemmed from losing his brothers or came with the rank.

His emotions immediately abated as Shaak Ti laid her hand on his left shoulder. Half a second later his right hand clamped down on hers, pinning it there and guaranteeing him an easier time of breathing.

Blitz's eyes drooped. Without all the high emotion and pain running through his body, he finally noticed his fatigue from the long day. He set his tea down on the table to slump back against the couch, relaxing in its soft embrace.

A sharp knock came from the door. Shaak Ti rose silently to answer it, and Blitz was already sinking into exhaustion too quickly to feel the emotions rushing back in.

* * *

Besides a "hello" or a "good afternoon," Blitz had never spoken to the resident Jedi general before. So when he woke up with a pounding headache, he figured it all must've been some sort of dream stemming from his realization that now he would be frequently interacting with all the bigwigs of Kamino.

He stood up, blearily taking in the familiar white _everything_ that he had grown up with on this planet before limping into the 'fresher. The combined pain of his leg and his head was slowly sharpening with his senses. The shower helped him wake up enough to mentally run through all the tasks he would have to complete that day involving clean-up, and who he would have to communicate with. The most pleasant thought to cross his mind was imagining himself just staying like this in the 'fresher for the entirety of the day.

His headache had only slightly abated by the time he turned the shower off to find that there were no towels in the 'fresher. Grumbling, Blitz dried off with his red shirt because he could've sworn he returned his towel to the wall rack after he'd used it a day ago... or two days ago. How long had it been? A glance in the mirror above the sink reminded him enough time passed for him to grow an impressive amount of stubble.

But the sink was clear of any 'fresher utensils. Where was his razor? Trying to remember the normalcy of life before the attack on Tipoca only intensified his headache until he could _hear_ the pounding, so when a knock sounded on the door to the cabin, Blitz wasn't quite sure if it was his headache or not.

No, it was definitely a knock. An impatient one at that. And it was probably Sten.

Still grumbling, Blitz pulled on his red bottoms, walked out the 'fresher door— and found a cloakless Shaak Ti had already answered it. He froze in place, the 'fresher door sliding closed behind him. She paused long enough to glance his way in surprise, and long enough for the Kaminoan she spoke with to incline its head inside the cabin to observe him as well.

Blitz's headache raged as his mind tried to hurdle the pain, searching for a logical answer. Why was Shaak Ti in his cabin? He glanced about the room to see an unfamiliar kitchenette and a white couch covered in a tossed-aside blanket.

He was in Shaak Ti's cabin.

"Yes, thank you, Nala Se," the general said with an incline of her montrals. "I will be there shortly." The Kaminoan eyed Shaak Ti's guest once again before gliding off down the hall, the door closing behind her.

Shaak Ti turned to him, offering a soft smile of pure amusement. "Good morning, Commander Blitz. How did you sleep?"

Blitz didn't sleep so much as he completely passed out. It was the best night he'd had in a long time if he forgot about the headache and the extreme awkwardness of now standing half-naked in his general's cabin. The nagging pain in his head drew a hand straight to his temple. "Er... ah, okay. I guess. Sorry, sir— didn't mean to, ah—" He was halfway turned around to reenter the 'fresher on the hunt for his shirt when something pleasantly cool pressed against his chest. He looked down to find a red hand stretched flat over his heart; her other hand reached up to cover his forehead with the same refreshing coolness.

"This will be a trying day for us all," she said calmly. Blitz barely registered it. "And you need to be at your best to perform your best."

With each throb, his headache dulled. The pain from his leg ebbed. He could breathe easier again. His hands lifted to grasp her red arms— enough comfort flowed in through her that the idea of collapsing against her seemed advantageous.

"Can I just take you with me... everywhere?" Blitz found himself saying. It came out in a reverent sigh.

This was helping far better than any medicine the GAR ever issued. He opened his eyes at her quiet laughter.

The shocking whiteness of the room brought out her colors more than Blitz had ever noticed, hidden as he usually was behind his visor. And as of last night seeing her without her customary Jedi robe for the first time banished all the preconceived notions of _matronly_ from his mind when he realized what her body actually looked like. His eyes fell to her white lips and a slightly more intimate form of thanks snuck into his imagination.

Blitz wasn't aware he was even moving until Shaak Ti's hand slipped from his forehead to softly touch his mouth, halting all progress.

Her expression remained as placid as ever. "We should go. We have much to do." Nothing but understanding and the slightest trace of amusement blended in her gaze. As much as her apparent passivity irked him from time to time, it was the most gracious response in the galaxy at that moment.

To the delight of his newfound insubordinate attitude, the kiss he left on her fingertips jolted her into the first stunned expression he'd ever seen her wear. He collected his shirt from the 'fresher floor and ducked out of Shaak Ti's cabin in the fastest escape Blitz could recall executing.

Headache gone and leg not even experiencing a twinge, Blitz only limped now from muscle memory rather than necessity. Even if his leg had been hurting, he probably wouldn't have felt it over his mind running circles around the memory of what he'd just done in his general's cabin. On the one hand, he was getting very friendly with his chain of command, on the other, he might've overstepped a boundary or two. Blitz wasn't entirely sure where this ability and interest in shirking protocol came from, but hopefully shouldering this new command position would temper him quickly.

His wet shirt clung to him uncomfortably; he pulled and repositioned it the entire time it took him to hustle back to his own cabin. Inside, he found his armor stacked next to his bed— not to regulation, but in his habitual way— and Sten in full kit sitting on Havoc's old bed.

"_There_ you are!" he cried, bouncing to his feet. "Where the kriff've you _been_? They've been looking for you for almost an hour!"

Glorious responsibilities.

Falling right back into the grumbling from Shaak Ti's cabin, Blitz started changing into his bodysuit right there. Shaving would apparently have to wait; at least he wasn't expected to take off his helmet the duration of the time about the city.

"But seriously, vod, where've you been? You were gone all karkin' night."

Blitz paused to look back, half of one set of leg armor donned. "What, checkin' up on me?" A glance to Havoc's side of the room showed a new red uniform tossed over a bed that was a little more rumpled than last night— and not just from Sten sitting on it. "Did you _sleep here_ last night?" He pointed to the far wall. "You've got your own room, y'know."

Sten's dual pauldron fluttered in a half-hearted shrug. "It's... weird... without a roommate anymore. I didn't want to be alone so around midnight or so I came over here. Where'd you hide out all night?"

Blitz returned to sliding on his armor. There was no way of explaining his story without it sounding completely inappropriate. And with the GAR-renowned rumor mill, anything even possibly scandalous could be turned into world-shatteringly outrageous in just under an hour.

"I just needed to get out for a bit. Not making a habit of it." Thank the Force for buckets, though; the next time he had to face his general he'd be well hidden.

Sten's hand landed on the yellow half of Blitz's pauldron moments after slipping it on. "Hey." His filtered voice sounded as gruff as Blitz felt yesterday in those odd moments of petulance. "You're not the only one who misses them. They were my brothers, too."

Blitz nodded slowly, only able to look at the helmet in his hands. With a steeling breath, he pulled the yellow-striped bucket over his head and took in all the information scrolling along his HUD. Clean up was once again in full swing and, predictably, everything was falling apart at the seams without central leadership present. His glance jerked up to the top of the wall locker to find the two helmets just as he left them last night staring blankly out into the room.

Blitz turned back to Sten and smacked him on the back. "Welcome to the room, vod."

終わり

* * *

**A.N. **Song: "Disappear" by Hoobastank.

Sten is 25% OC. There was already a nameless surviving red ARC trooper in Rancor Battalion... I just gave him a name. (That counts for 25%, right?) This chapter has been beta-approved by **Starcrier**.

On a scale from 1 to Sputnik, how sailable is this ship?


End file.
